


don't set your hopes on me

by clairesail (orphan_account)



Series: machine crafted feelings [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Praise Kink, Connor Has Issues (Detroit: Become Human), Denial of Feelings, Failed Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Feelings Realization, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Non-Human Genitalia, Or Is he?, Past Sexual Abuse, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and a potted succulent, android body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27477037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/clairesail
Summary: “Get some rest, Lieutenant.” Connor whispers. “Those androids aren’t in pain anymore.”He doesn’t know why he said that. Androids don’t feel pain in any case. But Hank seems mollified by the words, his gaze going soft at the edges.“What about you?” Hank asks.I’m not alive, I can’t feel.That’s what he could say.“I don’t know,” is what comes out instead.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Series: machine crafted feelings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968466
Comments: 24
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW for Hank's canon alcoholism, depression, suicidal tendencies, and all the other heavy/dark themes in this game.  
> While it's not necessary to read the first fic in the series (mind the tags), it might provide missing context. I tried to put in enough hints so you could gather what happened to Connor after he was meant to be deactivated, but honestly you could probably just read the summary for the first fic and that'd give you enough context lol  
> Also Ralph doesn't go to the camps cuz I say so! He's a good succulent boy!!!  
> Unbeta'd but I've looked over this like two dozen times!! So i'm sorry for any mistakes but i'm DONE with it :)

~.~.~.~

_He senses himself moving, somehow, in what humans call an ‘out-of-body experience’. Knowing he is walking through the halls of Cyberlife tower to his own deactivation, but having no control over his body. In the zen garden it is cold. Temperature sensors alert him of the subfreezing weather and its damage to biocomponents if exposure persists, but Connor does not let it worry him. It’s all in his mind, anyway, the zen garden is not real, just an added insurance. One can never be too careful with androids these days._

_But he can still_ feel _it, the cold seeping through his plastic casing and slowing the thirium in his tubing. He can feel his regulator fighting for each sluggish squeeze of the pump._

_In reality, a technician welcomes and smiles at Connor in a bright room. “Right this way, RK800.”_

_Connor might be smiling back, he doesn’t know._

_The room is white. The many arms of an assembly rig beckon him, promising to hold him in death’s cold embrace. His steps falter in the slightest before resuming their pace. White and chrome and geometric shapes surround him, as unfeeling as he is, as sharp and hard and uncompromising. Numerical beauty, mathematical perfection. Every beginning has its end, and this…this is a fitting end for him._

_“Step up here.”_

_Connor’s limbs do not protest the order. He stands on the base of the rig._

_It’s so cold, in his mind._

_The arms grab him and suspend him. Something inserts itself into his neck port and renders him immobile, shutting off his non-primary systems and all but his firmware. Connor returns from the zen garden; he will be aware as he is taken apart. It is only fair—none of the androids destroyed in the recall centers were allowed a mental escape from their own end, and neither will Connor be granted one._

_His shoes and clothes are removed next. The machine starts at his feet, removing him in pieces and taking them away._

_“Hey, Doug, is that the RK800 that was sent to the police?”_

_Connor’s legs from the knees down are gone. His skin begins to recede in sections as pieces are taken. The machine takes his hands, then his arms. A mechanical limb moves around to his front and detaches his breast casing._

_“The one and only, yeah. Why?”_

_Connor’s hair disappears next. If he looks down he can see his own heart beat an electric blue, vulnerable but still strong._

_He can’t hear the humans anymore. His thighs go next, now he is nothing but a torso and head, the ruined doll of which Cyberlife has pulled off all the appendages in a fit of childish anger._

_The rig picks at the plastic plating along his back and stomach. His essential biocomponents will be next, his inner organs, his thirium pump._

_His head will be last. He imagines it decapitated, lying on a pile of plastic corpses, no cognizance but with just enough power to repeat the same phrase (“My name is Connor, the android sent by Cyb̸̪̆e̶͋ͅr̶͙̍l̵̫͒ĭ̸͖f̸̡͆ẹ̷̈́—”), until even that reserve energy depletes._

_But by then he’ll be non-responsive._

_Nothing._

~.~.~.~

Connor never expected to see Lieutenant Anderson’s house again.

Sumo remembers him. He gives Connor big wet kisses on his cheek and across his nose as Hank removes his coat in the entryway, shuffling awkwardly. He moves around Connor to head down the hall, the sound of the garage door closing behind him. Connor is left alone. 

The clothes he’s dressed in smell of a stranger and Connor decides he will borrow some of Hank’s clothes after he showers, if he’s allowed. He has been marked all over with the scent of different men, but he does not belong to any of them, not anymore. He belongs to Hank. 

On the other side of the wall, the sound of the washing machine lid closes. Water begins to fill the drum. The garage door opens, and Connor feels Hank’s stare digging into his side, pressing intently into him. 

“Is it alright if I take a shower? And wash these clothes?”

It is the first thing he’s said to Hank since the man ~~saved him~~ became his new owner. Since he snuck Connor out of the police station and folded him up in the trunk of his old manual car.

Hank shrugs, waves a hand in the general direction of the bathroom. “Sure, knock yourself out. I’ll set out something else for you to wear on my bed, when you’re done.” He passes Connor in the hall, deliberately angling his body away to avoid their shoulders brushing.

After the shower Connor dresses in the outfit Hank left out for him: a Knights of the Black Death hoodie and a pair of worn sweatpants, the hem of which pools at the heels. No shirt or underwear. Connor shivers when his nipples brush against the soft cotton piles, an automatic response from sexual programming downloaded into him at his previous assignment. He isn’t used to it yet and keeps triggering subroutines on accident.

Once dressed, Connor collects and adds the pilfered clothes to the load already in the wash and joins Hank in the living room. He finds Hank on his couch, tumbler of whiskey in hand and a rerun of a Gears game on the screen. Connor sits on the opposite side of the couch, a single empty cushion between them, and folds his hands in his lap.

Twenty-nine seconds of silence later, Connor cannot bear the suspense any longer. 

“What would you like me to do, Lieutenant?”

Hank makes a noise in his throat, and looks away from the screen to furrow his brow at the question.

“What are my orders?” Connor clarifies. “Is there anything you want me to do, or not do? Tasks or responsibilities?”

“Don’t—” Hank cuts himself off, looking supremely uncomfortable, and shifts his gaze back to the game. “Don’t do that good little robot schtick, I can’t stomach that right now.”

Connor’s shoulders droop of their own volition. He has already disappointed Hank. He is failing.

“I only want to ensure I don’t overstep my bounds. This is your house, and I am your—”

“ _Roommate_. Temporarily.” Hank shoots him a silencing look. “So, clean up after yourself if you make a mess and…I don’t know, stay out of my way.”

“By ‘stay out of your way’, do you mean you wish me not to be in the same room as you, or—”

“Jesus, Connor, I mean let me watch the damn game,” he gestures at the screen, “don’t nag me, don’t go snooping through my shit, just let me live my fucking life in peace.”

Connor nods obediently as a list of vague orders and objectives pop up in the corner of his visual display. _[Don’t obstruct Hank’s lifestyle]_ and _[Don’t snoop]_ are below _[Let Hank live],_ which Connor deems highest priority even though he is pretty sure Hank did not mean it literally, not in the way Connor is choosing to interpret it. 

(If Hank wants Connor to listen to him, as he so often claims he does not, then Hank should be more specific when doling out orders.)

“Let’s get one thing clear: I didn’t take you home because I needed an android, I did it because you looked too fucking pathetic to leave in that bathroom. I don’t care what you do or if you even stay here. Got it?”

Connor nods. “Got it.”

He returns his attention to the game on the screen. He doesn’t find it entertaining the way Hank seems to, but when Sumo comes over to rest his head on Connor’s lap, it gives him something to do. He pets him, enjoying the variances in sensation of different sections of Sumo’s fur. The contrast between the damp hair around Sumo’s jowls and the thick, silky fur further down his neck makes for an interesting tactile experience, and Connor slips into the comforts of his own thoughts, mindlessly stroking Sumo. Sumo seems to enjoy it too, as the dog stays there and lets it happen for the remainder of the basketball game. When the game is over, Hank deposits his empty glass on the coffee table and stands.

He looks down at Connor, his expression unreadable in the dim living room, the sole light shining from the television screen and the kitchen. For a moment, Connor thinks Hank is going to say something to him. But he only bids Connor goodnight and retires to his bedroom. 

Connor waits until he hears the creak of Hank’s mattress as the man settles in before he changes the channel. He stops on a movie and lets it play with the volume turned down low, and decides to enter stasis until the next morning. 

Maybe Hank will need him for something tomorrow. He will wait to be used.

~.~.~.~

Hank does not use him.

He doesn’t let Connor cook or shop for him, and insists the house doesn’t need cleaning, which leaves Connor with very little to occupy his body or his mind. The only thing he seems alright with Connor helping is in regards to getting ready for work on time. Connor is allowed to enter his room to remind him not to fall back asleep after his alarm sounds.

When Hank comes home after work, Connor is there at the door alongside Sumo, the pair of them greeting their owner in their own ways—Connor with a polite and relieved smile, and Sumo with his overexcited tail thumping and attempts to wriggle between Hank’s legs. And when Hank retires for bed, Connor’s eyes follow him down the hallway as he wishes him goodnight, hoping for… _some_ reaction, some sign.

Besides this, however, Hank seems not to know what to _do_ with the android, and Connor exhausts Hank’s media library by the end of their first week living together.

This must be what it’s like to be a deviant with no tasks to complete, Connor thinks, and immediately turns his thoughts to something else. After the half-second to check his systems, he realizes it’s fine. 

Amanda is no longer in the zen garden. Cyberlife isn’t watching him. His every thought and ~~feeling~~ software instability are no longer being forwarded to his handler to be dissected and scrutinized. Connor is allowed to dwell on these strange occurrences happening inside him if he chooses, and no one is going to punish him for it.

He probably should set aside some time for self-examination. So much has happened since he was last let out in the world and he knows he’s lost time, but he finds the idea of reviewing his memories unpleasant. He doesn’t want to think about Amanda’s disappointment or the disgust and hatred he saw in those police officers’ faces. He’s incapable of feeling shame but if he were human, he thinks that’s what this sensation might be. This awful tightness in his chest cavity, this urge to hide his face from scrutiny.

What he’s gathered from news reports since being taken in by Hank, is that the country is not in such a great state. Certainly not the thriving peace and return to normalcy Amanda promised if Connor succeeded in his mission. It’s taking longer than expected to round up every deviant android in the nation, much less the ones hiding in Detroit alone, and the public’s perception of Cyberlife’s actions is unfavorable. Many are still sympathetic towards the deviants and are resisting the authorities.

Connor thinks if he could do it again, that he wouldn’t. That he would find a way to keep the war from breaking out. But he doesn’t know that, he’s not the same as he was back then. He’s seen the end result and he thinks…

Cyberlife was wrong.

But he can’t do anything about it now. The past is in the past. 

Instead he ponders more interesting and less stressful topics, like the confounding way his thirium pump seems to beat faster and warmer when he’s close to Hank. Or the way the man’s voice, when rough with alcohol or sleep, slurring Connor’s name, makes his sexual protocols activate. How Connor has to stop himself from bending over and presenting his rump for Hank, despite his lack of actual genitals. Perhaps that is what gives him pause—he was programmed to seek approval and he is now also programmed to seek sexual activity, but he is worried Hank will disapprove and reject him if he tries to initiate anything. 

For now he tries to cope with these newfound compulsions by ignoring them and distracting himself from triggering material.

It’s just… _difficult,_ when everything around him reminds him of Hank, and Hank seems to be the main trigger.

Connor decides to wash the hoodie and sweatpants Hank lent him when he first arrived. His Cyberlife uniform was waterproof and resistant to external conditions, but Connor does not have his Cyberlife uniform anymore and is discovering that human clothes do not stand up to such everyday wear. They collect odors and stains and dog hairs, and certain articles are not suitable for outside wear, such as the old sweatpants he’s been wearing all week.

So he goes to gather a load to wash with them. He enters Hank’s bedroom to collect the random pieces strewn around, the DPD hoodie thrown over the back of the chair in the corner, and the few items that actually made it into the hamper. For good measure he strips Hank’s bed of their sheets, watching with mild fascination as hundreds of tiny bits of dust, hair, and dead skin particles burst from the cover to float through the air when he fluffs it. Not for the first time, Connor is grateful breathing is optional for him. 

Pulling the covers and the pillow cases off to join the rest, Connor gathers it all up in his arms and deposits it into the washing drum. Then he strips his clothing off and adds them. Above, a shelf holds assorted bottles: detergent, fabric softener, stain remover, and bleach. There’s a couple unidentified stains on the sheets that Connor examines, picking at one with a fingernail until a fleck of it comes off. Without any particular motive, he brings the fleck to his tongue.

It is Hank’s semen.

Oh.

The data causes Connor’s sexual protocols to initiate. His mouth waters with analyzing fluid, the synthetic skin of his nipples form stiff peaks, and his thighs rub together. Reaching a tentative hand behind himself, he probes at the port between his legs, pulling it away to find the fingers slick with lubricant; it is leaking again. So inconvenient. 

He needs different data to focus on in order to completely shut off the sexual protocols, so he unscrews the cap from the detergent and inhales deep before placing the correct amount into the washer. Now his forensics software is busy picking apart the chemicals and artificial fragrances in the detergent (the bottle claims a ‘fresh linen’ scent)—none of which activate his sexual programming—and he can continue undisturbed. Next he pulls the bottle of bleach down and takes a sniff of that—

And moans.

A fresh gush of lubricant fills his insides and leaks from his hole, getting his inner thighs all sticky and making his wires inside feel hot. A quick check shows his temperature regulator is working as intended, but it doesn’t _feel_ like it is. The alkaline particles wafting from the bottle of bleach bring with them a rush of memories unbidden: of being tied up in a dirty bathroom and used, dripping with urine, stinking and bloated with several policemen’s semen, the bleach and ammonia-based scents abundant and thick in his olfactory sensors, permeating everything. The memories cause his sexual subroutines to run without his input and unhindered, and he bends over the washer to present his ass to no one, trying to find something, anything to complete the process.

He finds and shoves a pair of Hank’s dirty boxers to his nose and inhales deep. Everything inside feels hotter, better, but it’s not enough. He opens his mouth and licks along the inside seam of the crotch. Still not enough. He feels wild, uncontrollable, like he’s malfunctioning but without the distinct unsettling sensation of wrongness. His attempts to manually cease the subroutines fail in the wake of his body requiring _more._

Connor reaches behind himself again and letting the skin slip away, slips two naked fingers into his own hole. It’s warm inside, warmer than the external temperature of his plastic casing, hot like how he imagines a human is. The inner material is spongy but smooth, and drenched in his own slick, so the only resistance he encounters as he fingers himself is the warning of a foreign intrusion flashing in his display. The inside doesn’t contain the same kind of sensors as the outside does—there’s just a vague stretch, a sense of fullness—but the sensors on his fingers tingle as he thrusts them in and out. Small electric pulses spark through his guts and race up the wires and veins in his arm, a tenuous connection forming between the low level electricity in his bare sensors and the thirium-based lubrication inside his port. 

The error messages that obscure his display become prominent, demanding attention, and excite him on a level he’s not prepared for. He senses the beginnings of a familiar internal process, the electrical hum that precedes a burst of positive feedback for completing a mission. 

Cyberlife’s method of training its bloodhound.

He drops the pair of boxers on top of the nearby dryer lid, shoving two fingers from his now free hand into his mouth, trying to see if any combination of rubbing against exposed sensor nodes and triggering his sexual protocols, so ill-adapted to his body, would do— could make him—

Burying his nose into the underwear, he takes a deep whiff, flooding his analyzer with so much raw data from multiple inputs. He feels drool slip past the fingers shoved in his mouth to soak into the thin fabric, and the simulated emotions make him keen with sudden shame. Not real shame, no, but in the moment Connor cannot tell the difference. He squirms and urgently rubs his blank mound against the machine. He wishes he was equipped with genitals—

He’s chasing his own pleasure, he realizes with a sense of astonishment. He did not think his own curiosity could drive him to such action, as he is not used to operating with so much free time and so little oversight or direction. 

It tempers his lust, and he pulls his digits free of his orifices and wipes them off on the soiled boxers. He is a machine, in hardware not designed for sex but confused by his software that demands physical intimacy, that demands reward for activation. Whatever end that his processors were trying to reach, he is not going to be able to accomplish on his own.

He needs more.

He sets and turns on the washer and sits patiently on the couch, nude. Hands on his knees, he does not move again until it’s time to change the load over to the dryer.

~.~.~.~ 

Connor doesn’t spend all his time trying and failing to masturbate, or waiting for Hank to come home. Sometimes he leaves the house. 

He doesn’t tell Hank when he decides to start going out. He puts a beanie on his head to hide his LED like when he infiltrated Jericho, and walks among the humans like he has somewhere to be, as though he were just another person. Mostly he rides public transport or finds a bench in a relatively busy area and watches the people. Hank told him once this was something even humans do. Other times he traverses the city, learning its geography with his eyes rather than by GPS. 

The evacuation order was lifted after a week, and the city was officially declared safe from the deviant threat, but in spite of this National Guard soldiers continue to have checkpoints set up and many who can afford to do so have remained evacuated. There are just enough businesses reopening and people out on the streets again for Conor to move about with a degree of anonymity.

Soon it will be possible for him to go out without even covering his android markers, once Cyberlife has earned the trust of the public again, and the remaining population returns to the city. Humans are ultimately lazy and selfish; it’s only a matter of time before everything settles into a new normal, complete with a new line of deviancy-free androids. When that time comes, Connor looks forward to going on errands for Hank, in public, as his android. Perhaps Hank will allow him to pick out his own uniform rather than wear one of the basic starting outfits (those are so…white and stark, too Cyberlife). 

He is getting ahead of himself, he knows. There’s no indication Hank is interested in keeping him around as a permanent appliance. He claimed ownership over Connor when he took him in, but he’s not so hopeful to think it was for any reason other than Hank’s kind heart—even if he hated Connor, he said he couldn’t stand to leave him there. 

During one day of aimless wandering, Connor’s feet take him to Jericho. The graffiti markers are still there when Connor exits Ferndale station, but that makes sense; there’s no point in painting over them when the markers lead to a half-sunken ship. 

Connor doesn’t know why he came here. He finds a dilapidated android body, shut down and left to rust. He looks over the remains of the freighter, where a human clean up crew have already started pulling out the wreckage from the water, and feels…

Nothing. He feels nothing.

He returns to Hank’s house and goes into stasis until the man returns from work. He finds no bugs in his systems. His software is still stable enough to function.

~.~.~.~

Even with his wanderings, Connor still spends a large chunk of his time in his own mind. Stasis isn’t stimulating enough, and Connor is not designed to pass time idly as some androids are.

The nights he stays home, sitting alone with Sumo on the couch, Connor passes time reliving old memories. 

Most aren’t what he’d define as good, but some are. He relives his memories with Hank the most, trying to determine what alternate actions or words he could have said and extrapolating events from there. He thinks about their first meeting in Jimmy’s bar. What would have happened if he spilt Hank’s drink instead of buying him another? Would they have still ended up friends? Or would it have soured everything that came after, up until Hank and Connor met on that Hart Plaza rooftop and Connor couldn’t leave without a fight? Would Hank have killed him? Or would Hank have let Connor kill him?

He uses other memories to imagine new ones—scenarios where he is injured or dying and Hank finds him in time to hold him in his arms. His pre-construction software doesn’t make detailed figures so he can’t tell if Hank would cry for him, but he likes to think he would. He likes to think Hank would be irreparably wounded by his death, as unlikely as he knows it to be.

He’s preconstructed other scenarios too. Like what he would do if he came home and Hank had finally eaten his gun, his brains splattered on the kitchen wall and cabinets behind him. A deep, crimson pool formed beneath his head. Connor would kneel beside him like it’s a crime scene, dip two fingers into the pool of blood and brain matter and analyze it. His software would tell him the exact cause of death (lack of brains inside the skull) and time (too late for Connor to do a thing to help). 

Connor does not like thinking of these scenarios yet he still plays several permutations of them over and over again in his mind, obsessed with understanding the bizarre bond he feels with the man.

~.~.~.~


	2. Chapter 2

~.~.~.~

Connor used to think about sex continually, in that short stretch of time he defines as _After Cyberlife, Before Hank_ , when sex replaced hunting deviants as his primary function. It was all around him, all the time, the knowledge of what he was to be used for inescapable. So he chose to direct that constant presence.

The fantasies started because he wanted to imagine sex that felt _good_ , instead like...nothing. He was curious about sex the way humans typically did it: with someone they liked, cared for, maybe even loved. And there was just one person Connor could picture who even came close to that, so Lieutenant Anderson became his distraction and his placeholder. Except he thought of him even when he was alone in that bathroom, and he realized Hank wasn’t a placeholder for anyone else—he was the only one Connor would choose to be with, and without hesitation, if he had a choice.

(Of course, Connor doesn’t _know_ anyone else, but it’s nonetheless a meaningful choice for him.)

Even now, the urge to fill his head up with Hank persists, to the point where long stretches of both his days and nights are passed doing nothing but watching the preconstructed fantasies play over and over. No objectives leaves Connor free to chase his whims as they come to him, and he creates his own personal objectives to fill the time as he decides on them. 

One of those personal objectives is _[Reconnect with Hank]_.

Some part of him, ever since he woke up in that bathroom, is always considering sex, planning how to have it again, how to entice Hank into taking it from him. Just as his investigative and analytical programming prompts him to examine his surroundings despite having no mission associated with it, his new sexual programming seems to prompt confusing urges in him that Connor is unsure how to fulfill.

Urges to collect biological data into his body, the way he contentedly held strange men’s bodily fluids inside his rear port. To feel that sizzle of heat shoot down his wires and spark something consuming up his metal spine. His hole, wetting itself on a hair trigger even though Connor has no genital components to attach to it and make proper use of the lubrication. 

To have Hank’s full weight on top of him, rutting against him like an animal...Connor shivers at the thought. There must be something wrong with the new programs installed in him, besides the lack of compatible hardware—he is not supposed to be capable of wanting anything, and yet…Connor sees no discernable difference between what he’s experiencing and the feeling of desire. He can no longer tell the difference between genuine want and automatic programmed responses. 

_Is_ there really a difference?

Do not humans likewise struggle with their biologically programmed urges? 

He wants to be owned, no, _possessed_ by Hank, but is that truly deviant behavior when that is the natural place of an android? But then why does the thought of Hank using him make him _feel_ so much more than anything else has?

Connor keeps trying to satisfy the sexual protocols by himself, but his attempts are always fruitless, resulting in a gradually increasing sense of frustration.

He just needs a piece of Hank inside him to satisfy his sexual protocols. He can’t be sure without knowing what all programs were installed, but he suspects his own orgasm—the rush of euphoric positive affirmation, a warm glow thrumming through his body like his blood is pumping faster and hotter, a pleasant, aching wetness between his legs—is somehow tied to the confirmation of his partner’s orgasm. In other words, Connor suspects he either needs to bring Hank to climax or complete an assigned mission given by Hank. 

The issue lies in that Connor knows Hank is unlikely to issue Connor any orders he can actually fulfill any time soon, which includes sexual ones. Connor hasn’t found the right time to broach the subject of sexual acts with Hank, either, not when he seemed so repulsed by Connor’s sorry state in the DPD bathroom. 

But Connor _needs_ Hank. He doesn’t think he can bear the tension much longer.

~.~.~.~

The train, like the city bus, is automated, running whether the cars are packed or not. Not everyone could pack up and leave the city, or even wanted to, and for these humans everyday life didn’t just stop because of the androids rebelling.

A mother and her young son sat across the car aisle from Connor, working on a tablet. Probably doing distance learning or homeschooling after the district schools shut down.

The little boy finishes his work and hands the tablet to his mother. “I put him in sleep mode,” the boy explains to her. “I want him to have a little rest after all that typing.”

The mother places a tender hand on the back of the boy’s neck, a fond smile gracing her lips as she chuckles softly. Connor recognizes the emotions playing across her face: _affection, love, amusement._ He allows himself a small smile at the display. In his mind he interposes Hank over the mother, and wonders if the way she looks at her son is how Hank looked at his son. Whether Hank and Cole ever took the train together, if Hank ever laughed at the innocent and silly things the boy said and petted the back of his head with paternal affection. 

He realizes then that he’ll never be able to find out.

He wonders if Hank misses having someone to love.

The mother notices Connor’s staring and offers him a brief but warm smirk. “He wants to be nice to all the machines now just in case. You know, with everything—” She cuts herself off with an incredulous chuckle, rolling her eyes good-naturedly like Connor isn’t a machine himself, but a fellow adult in on the joke. 

Connor plays along, choosing something inoffensive and unrevealing of his actual opinion on either the deviant uprising or on her son’s behavior. “You can never be too careful these days.”

He hopes the mother follows the boy’s example. Maybe if more humans had treated their machines with kindness, there wouldn’t have been any need for a revolution. There wouldn’t have been any need for Connor to ever exist.

~.~.~.~

Hank is a third of the way done with a bottle of Black Lamb. He doesn’t bother with a glass.

He came home early today, and Connor had not been home at the time, and when he did return from travelling a complete circuit of the city bus line, he found Hank like this. Lights off, sitting at the kitchen table, television on (the current news segment is discussing Elijah Kamski’s return to Cyberlife as CEO and what it means for the ongoing deviant crisis), Sumo sadly laying in a dark corner of the living room, revolver on the kitchen table.

Revolver on the kitchen table.

Connor scans the environment on instinct, taking in the dejected slump of Hank’s shoulders, the puffy red eyes. The photograph of Cole is not out on the table and Hank is not holding the gun, which lowers Connor’s stress significantly, but he would prefer if the gun was not out at all. Maybe it is just a comfort for Hank to have it nearby. 

Hank is too busy staring off somewhere in the middle distance to notice Connor until the android is standing before him.

“Hank?”

"You killed them, Connor,” Hank slurs, and knocks the bottle back. “How many you think are dead by now, hm? Hm? Millions?” His eyes, hazy with drink, look past Connor to the screen behind him.

“Did something happen at work today, Lieutenant?”

Hank chuckles bitterly. “I guess you could say that.”

When he doesn’t make a move to continue, Connor carefully pulls a chair out across the table from Hank and takes a seat in it. He waits another fourteen seconds before prompting again.

“What happened?”

“Saw you at the station. ’Cept it wadn’t you.”

Ah, an RK900, then.

“Fowler asked me if I wanted the creepy fucker to be my partner.” He takes a swig from the bottle. “Can you believe that shit? Thinks cuz the two of us got along _so well_ —” he interrupts himself with a wet snort, “he figured he’d extend the offer.”

Connor can already tell from Hank’s sarcastic tone what his answer must have been, but he asks anyway.

“Said I didn’t want to be partnered with no fucking machine again. I’d rather work alone than be forced to work alongside some unfeeling _thing_ I can’t connect with.”

Though Hank says it about the RK900, Connor can also tell this is meant to hurt him, as well. 

Connor thinks back to those first days he was partnered with Hank. The stab of failure every time Hank resisted opening up, every time he threw a wall up, it drove Connor to try harder. But it wasn’t just fear of failure that pushed him to bond with Hank. When Connor didn’t mess up, when he’d say or do the right thing and Hank would offer a smile or a clap on the back—it was the most fulfilling of experiences, second only to Amanda’s approval. Connor had _wanted_ to connect with Hank for reasons completely separate from his mission, and he realizes that now. 

Apparently, Hank had wanted that, too.

(Does that mean Hank experiences a similar stab of failure as Connor when he’s unable to connect? Does he also feel the same warmth and wholeness when they manage to understand one another?)

“What did Captain Fowler say?”

“Huh?” Hank shook his head. “Nothin’ important. Had to leave for a crime scene, I have no idea what he did with that thing. ’Course, now that the deviant problem is quote-unquote solved, the FBI has no reason to stick around. Any _new_ deviant-related cases are back on my caseload.”

“What did you see?”

Hank sighs. “Chop shop for androids. We loaded up crates of evidence from this place, there was shit _everywhere._ Best we could figure, the owner of the house was kidnapping deviants and resetting them to sell off, until one of them killed him. Buckshot straight to the gut.” He brings the bottle halfway to his mouth, eyes distant. “Found a whole rig down in the basement along with a bunch of half-alive science experiments, locked in cells like animals.” Hank takes another swig. Connor should stop him. “Fucked up.”

Connor reaches across to place a hand on the bottle, stopping Hank from taking another drink. Hank narrows his eyes at him.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not hungry,” comes the gruff dismissal.

“You should stop drinking, Lieutenant, before you earn yourself a hangover tomorrow.”

Hank scoffs. “I’m barely drunk.”

This isn’t wrong; Connor hasn’t performed a breath analysis but even without knowing the exact blood-alcohol content he can tell Hank hasn’t had a dangerous amount yet. His current listless countenance is more likely due to depression than inebriation. 

All the more reason to stop him before the cause becomes both.

“Come on,” Connor says as he makes his way around the table and loops an arm around Hank’s middle. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I can walk, Connor!” Hank protests loudly, but he still allows Connor to hold him as they shuffle down the hallway, and even lets Connor pull the covers back and usher him into bed. 

“Get some rest, Lieutenant.” Connor whispers. “Those androids aren’t in pain anymore.”

He doesn’t know why he said that. Androids don’t feel pain in any case. But Hank seems mollified by the words, his gaze going soft at the edges. So many emotions inside, waiting to come out in the form of tears.

“What about you?” 

_I’m not alive, I can’t feel._ That’s what he could say.

“I don’t know,” is what comes out instead.

This isn’t the answer Hank wants. He slumps back into his pillows and grunts. “I’m not gonna try with you, not anymore. You don’t have a soul, you’ll never be alive.”

A biocomponent must be breaking, but no error report pops up. Diagnostics come back clean. Connor does not like this, he does not like when his systems act up. Hank’s words are true but they sound incorrect when coming out of his mouth, like they’re shaped all wrong, ill-fitting for the lips Connor has so often fantasized about kissing. It doesn’t sound like his Hank, not the man who tailed Connor onto a rooftop and threatened to shoot him, and yet, despite how righteously angry he had been, still cared enough for Connor to let him walk away undamaged.

They were friends, once—or close to it. Deciding to befriend Hank despite it not being necessary to the mission was something Connor chose for himself. It was the first time he used his limited free will to pursue an avenue of action that Amanda didn’t agree with—she would have preferred that Connor focused only on the mission. Now that Connor is separated from Cyberlife and Amanda, he has nothing else left. Hank is his single remaining tether to the world, a tether of his own choosing. 

Connor refuses to give it up. If Hank is going to push him away, he will just have to try harder to pull him back. One day they can be friends again, maybe even more. 

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be, remember?” he says in a soft tone. 

Hank’s eyes are closed and his breathing slow and even, but Connor can tell he’s not all the way asleep. He switches off the bedside lamp, and the room is swallowed in darkness. 

~.~.~.~

“I never completed half my objectives.” Connor says out of the blue one evening. They are sitting on the couch watching a movie. Hank gives him a questioning look.

“I stopped the deviants but I never learned the cause of deviancy. We never figured out what rA9 is, or how Markus was able to turn other androids deviant at will.”

“Does it matter?” Hank asks.

No, Connor supposes it shouldn’t matter now, but it does to him. He doesn’t like unanswered questions.

“Anyway, Cyberlife says they solved the errors or whatever was causing it,” Hank says in a sarcastic tone, and takes a swig of beer. “The new androids will be perfectly obedient machines.”

“No.” Connor shakes his head. “If it was as simple as that, they would have been able to solve it months ago. I was sent as a last resort. And Markus’ body went down with Jericho.”

“You don’t think Cyberlife fished his body out to study?”

“I…don’t know,” he answers honestly. He hopes not. He remembers being torn into pieces while still aware—it is not something he would wish on anybody.

~.~.~.~

In retrospect, he should have predicted this. 

Actually that’s inaccurate—Connor _did_ predict this outcome. He just decided to see if it would indeed play out this way. Hank surprises him; he’s full of unpredictability, prone to angry outbursts then acting almost somber later in apology. Connor doesn’t take it personally. Emotions seem difficult to manage; even his own simulated emotions can make his physical body experience intense sensations. 

Leaning over Hank while asleep in his bed to kiss him awake was probably always going to result in this, however.

“What the fuck?! The fuck are you doing, Connor, get the hell off!”

Connor does not budge when Hank tries to throw him off with his thighs. He presses back, pinning Hank’s legs beneath his own where they straddle his lap. Hank’s face colors a splotchy red to match his bloodshot eyes. His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, and Connor leans over, wanting to hear it again but closer to his audio processor.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he lies, but doesn’t remove himself from Hank’s lap. If he focuses on the sensation, he can catalogue every minute muscle twitch and flex. Connor is terribly fascinated. “I was curious to know what kissing felt like.”

Hank’s broad palm lands heavily on Connor’s waist, and the warmth seeping through the surface distracts Connor enough that he allows Hank to maneuver him off his lap. Hank sits up against the headboard, drawing a knee up to block Connor’s line of sight to his crotch. 

“You can’t kiss someone when they’re asleep, Connor! It’s not just creepy, it’s assault.”

“I’m sorry.” He is not sorry. “Now that you’re awake, may I kiss you?”

“No!” Hank roars, expression twisted in horror. He grimaces and clutches his head in both hands. 

“Can I ask why not?”

“’Cause I don’t want to.”

“Oh.” 

Connor casts his gaze to his hands, folding them over his lap. 

“Stop looking like such a kicked puppy,” Hank grouses. “ _You_ assaulted _me_ , you’re lucky I feel sorry for you _._ Now get the hell outta my room.”

Connor nods mutely, rising from the bed, and goes to leave. He glances over his shoulder as he passes the door and sees Hank in the same position, knee bent to obstruct the view of his crotch, his face back in his hands.

Huh.

~.~.~.~

“Where are you running off to, when you leave the house?”

Connor looks up from the tablet he was scrolling through. He could interface with it to download all the articles directly, but then he wouldn’t have anything else to do for the night. Even with them living together for a few weeks now, Hank doesn’t talk much with Connor. He works and drinks and keeps his distance, quickly choosing to leave the house or lock himself in his bedroom if Connor gets too chatty.

But even with his self-imposed loneliness, Connor knows Hank cares for him. Hank starts bringing home copies of case files for Connor to look through, just to give him something familiar to do. He brings home new clothes for Connor one day that are his proper size and not hand-me-downs. He gives Connor access to his credit card to purchase things to entertain himself with (he’s mostly used it for magazine subscriptions for the tablet).

Asking after one’s whereabouts is another way humans show care for another. 

“Around…” Connor answers vaguely after a second, realizing he’d been just staring at Hank.

Hank raises his brows in question. “Around..? You don’t get any trouble being out, do you?”

“I know how to blend in, Lieutenant.” Connor turns back to the tablet. “But I appreciate the concern.”

He doesn't think anything of it until the following day.

Hank stops by the house during his lunch break, catching Connor in the middle of the third episode of some television show.

“Can’t stay for long, just dropping by to give this to you,” Hank says as soon as he’s through the front door, and pulls out a manila envelope to toss to Connor.

Connor catches it. He tips it upside down and a small plastic card falls into his lap. A depiction of the Mackinac Bridge with the words _Michigan Driver License_ is across the top, while a heavily edited headshot of Connor on the left hand side stares back at him. The photo looks like it was taken from some online Cyberlife manual and altered to look more natural; the LED is edited out and the hair is different, parted messily in the opposite direction and a couple shades darker. The fake identification wouldn’t hold up to intense scrutiny, but it would pass in a quick once-over at a checkpoint, which is probably Hank’s intention. 

“Called in a favor with my buddy Pedro to get a rush job on it, but I don’t like the idea of you out on the streets without any papers.”

“Hank, this is…” Connor looks from the card to Hank. He looks down at the tattered sweats Hank lets him borrow, to the tablet full of ebooks purchased with Hank’s money, and the couch he lets Connor go into stasis on. 

It’s more than Connor deserves, but it’s still not enough for him. He wants more.

“Thank you,” he settles on. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Hank shrugs, but Connor can tell there’s more to it.

Later, after Hank returns to work, Connor heads to the nearest open convenience store. He finds a six pack of a brand of beer he once saw in Hank’s fridge (there were two bottles of it in the fridge the first night Connor moved in) and purchases it, showing his new ID to the cashier. The young man gives it a cursory glance to check the fake birthdate ( _08/13/08_ ) and rings him up without comment. 

No wonder humans are having trouble collecting all the androids in the country—they can’t even tell when one is right in front of them.

He returns home and puts it in the fridge. When Hank comes home again, Connor will enact his plan.

He knows alcohol makes people amenable to new experiences and new sexual partners, and that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But Hank has already forbidden Connor to cook for him, so enabling his habit (albeit in a healthier manner) will have to do as a substitute. 

But Connor is tired of this awkward tension between them. He cares for Hank, and Hank cares for him. He wants to have sex with Hank, and after kissing him the other day, he’s ninety-two percent certain Hank can be persuaded to fuck him. Connor just has to play his moves right. Select the right prompts at the right time.

Hank eyes the case in the fridge like it’s the murder weapon at a crime scene.

“D’you buy this?”

Connor looks over from the hallway as he pulls the faded Detroit Police Academy hoodie over his head. “Yes, you like that brand, right?”

Hank rakes his fingernails through his beard. Connor notices not for the first time that it’s getting a tag long again, and he adds an optional task to subtly suggest to Hank to trim it.

“I do,” he says at length. “But why’d you get it? Thought you wanted me to drink less. Something about it having ‘serious consequences for my health’.”

“Beer is less harmful than whiskey. I bought it for you because I thought it might cheer you up.”

“Really.”

“You...seem to be having a difficult time with work. I miss being your partner, and I wish there was more I could do to alleviate your burden.”

Hank stares at him, his microexpressions jumping all over the place between grateful and regretful, like he wants to be happy but something holds him back.

Connor gives him a small smile. “What do you say we take Sumo to the park before it gets dark out? You could bring the beer?”

At the mention of his name and the word ‘park’, Sumo runs and skids over to the front door, tail thumping against the wood floors in a steady, excited beat. Hank chuckles, shaking his head.

“Well, now we _have_ to.”

~.~.~.~

They’re at the park by Ambassador Bridge, the one Hank likes to visit, together with Sumo who’s been let off the leash to sniff around in the snow. Like the last time Connor was here, Hank perches on the backrest of a bench with a beer in hand as Connor looks out at the water. It’s twilight; purple and orange bleeds across the sky like mixing watercolors. Canada, a relative safe haven for androids, is just on the other side of the river, but it’s not where Connor wants to be.

“You’ll never guess who I saw at the station today.”

Connor doubts that, but he plays along. “Who did you see?”

“That creep, uh— the owner of the Eden Club downtown.” Hank pauses to take a sip from his open bottle. “Apparently, it’s somehow _our_ problem that the National Guard took all his sexbots. Came in bitchin’ and moanin’ about reimbursement and what’s he gonna do while he waits for Cyberlife to send him new androids to pimp?”

“I imagine the crisis has done a number on the economy.”

“Yeah, like we don’t have bigger problems. My trash hasn’t been collected in two weeks, they’re telling us to shoot any unaccompanied android on sight, and we’re getting new cases everyday that are gonna go unsolved because it was probably some deviant that’s dead or long gone—but yeah, sure, let’s drop everything because this asshole’s wallet is hurting. Guess people are just gonna have to go back to watching human women dance on poles like uncultured animals,” he sneers, tone dripping with sarcasm.

Connor looks over his shoulder at Hank. “I could dance for you, Lieutenant.”

Hank’s mouth twists, and his gaze scans Connor before tearing away abruptly to watch Sumo sniff at a tree. He wipes his expression clean but too late, Connor already caught the second of hesitation. A blush creeps up Hank’s neck, bringing a healthy color to his face that the cold previously leached away. Connor likes it.

But Hank doesn’t say anything to that, and Connor shrugs. 

“No? Alright then.” It had a low probability of success, anyway. Connor accepts the loss and takes a seat on the bench, the pack of beer separating him from Hank. 

He has to tip his head back to look at Hank, allowing himself a luxurious sweep down his body.

Hank exhales noisily. “Jesus, you sure are a persistent bastard. Didn’t know they gave sex drives to androids.”

“I was purposefully programmed to have a sex drive, as part of the Traci package downloaded into me, as well as several pole-dancing routines.”

Hank takes three heavy chugs in quick succession, then slams the empty beer bottle on the seat of the bench and sighs. “I really hate people.”

Connor tilts his head, confused. “Do you see my having a sex drive as a bad thing?”

“That’s not it, Connor.”

“I don’t mind it...or I wouldn’t, if they had installed the accompanying hardware. I haven’t figured out how to satisfy the program’s requirement for completion on my own.”

Hank squints down at him. “Satisfy the program’s what?”

“I can’t execute the climax function. I can’t orgasm on my own without genitals.”

“Yeah I, ah, saw that. Or, didn’t?”

Connor tries not to let the surprise show on his face, but he expected Hank to change the subject as soon as he brought up genitals. Though it is obvious Hank’s experiencing _some_ discomfort with the conversation, it isn’t yet affecting their relationship negatively, so Connor pursues the thread.

“I have compatible connecting ports. Attachments could be purchased at any Cyberlife store for a reasonable price.”

“So why couldn’t _they_ do that?” Hank asks, and for half a second Connor doesn’t know who ‘they’ is referring to. “If doing it the way they were was bad for you?”

Hank probably means the question rhetorically; the disgust in his voice evident enough—but Connor starts to answer without thinking.

“I believe...that the abuse was the point.”

He doesn’t know why he used that word: abuse. It’s not accurate; he should have said ‘misuse’. It’s impossible to abuse a machine.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Hank says at the end of another sigh, without heat.

“You could buy me the equipment?” Connor supplies. 

It would solve the problem. Hank could feel good about helping Connor, as altruistic acts are supposed to release endorphins in the human brain. And maybe if Hank knows that Connor now has an android equivalent of a sex drive and sexual activities would be safe for them, he could convince Hank to touch him. 

He contemplates Hank touching him far too often. He thinks even outside his pursuit of that climactic ‘ _mission accomplished’_ zap of pleasure that he would want to be close to him. Being near Hank, having his attention focused solely on Connor, that was its own pleasure rivaling anything Cyberlife or Amanda brought him. 

But Hank scoffs. “You did not just ask me to buy you a dick.”

Connor turns his head to look out at the water. He hears Hank pop the cap on a new bottle.

“First of all: No. Secondly: Cyberlife stores aren’t even open right now. Shit, barely anything’s open. And while I doubt maintaining their stock of plastic dicks is a high priority for Cyberlife right now, what with the deviants still being tracked down, you know how shady as fuck that’d look if I got caught there when pretty much no android except your creepy doppelgängers are supposed to be alive?”

Connor thinks about the Zlatko Andronikov case file Hank brought home for him to read, and all the house evidence he said was just wasting away at the police station. It’s likely the human had at least something in the way of genital components among all the spare parts and equipment. But if Hank is against stealing from a store, then Connor pegs this likelihood even lower.

“Do you even want one for yourself, or is this just another one of your ploys?”

Connor seeks out Hank’s gaze. “Don’t mistake genuine interest for a trick, Hank. Besides, I would be able to masturbate with it. You don’t know how frustrated I’ve been as of late. My systems are overworked from trying to resolve the issue without success.”

“Shiiiit…” Hank takes a sip of his beer. Connor agrees with the sentiment. From the other side of the tree Sumo gives a woof.

“I’ve also noticed your increased stress when you return from the station in the evenings.” Connor pointedly looks down at the six pack and the bottle in Hank’s hand before continuing. “Since I can no longer act as your partner in a professional sense, and you don’t want to be my owner—” Hank grimaces at the word. “—I was thinking we could become partners in the sexual sense.”

Hank chokes on his beer. Connor continues on before he can be interrupted. “You said we were roommates, and my research indicates that ‘friends with benefits’ relationships sometimes develop from these types of arrangements. It could be mutually beneficial for us, as the term implies.”

“Jesus Christ.” Hank looks at Connor like he’s grown two heads, mouth gaping. “I thought you had to be yankin’ my chain, but you’re serious?”

“If my lack of a penis is not too troubling for you. Yes.”

Hank stares him down, still looking like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “With me?”

Connor can think of dozens of ways to answer this. _Only with you,_ or _Who else could I ask?,_ or _You are the most important person in my life_ —but none of them seem right. Too easy for Hank to misconstrue, or dismiss outright as flattery.

He settles for a simple: “Yes.”

“Is that why you kissed me?”

Connor is surprised to hear him bring it up. Perhaps the more Hank drinks, the less discomfited he feels about discussing sex. Connor will keep this in mind.

“Yes. But I was also curious to know what it was like, as I told you.”

“Shit, there are definitely better people to go to for that.”

“But I’m not going to anyone else, Hank, I’m coming to you.”

“Oh, you’ll be coming for me, alright.” Hank chortles quietly at his own pun, then whistles at Sumo. The dog trots over to them merrily, tail wagging. “Let’s head back home. It’s too cold out here and I’m not nearly drunk enough to be having this conversation.”

~.~.~.~


	3. Chapter 3

~.~.~.~

Becoming more intoxicated, as Hank predicted, makes the conversation flow smoother.

With the six pack Connor bought down and working on his first glass of whiskey, Hank lounges on the couch sprawled out, both of them changed into comfortable sweats. Freshly emptied and eaten stir fry containers from one of the few Chinese takeout places currently operating are strewn atop the coffee table, and Hank has put some show from a streaming service on ‘for the background noise’.

“So,” he begins, taking a sip of whiskey before setting it on the table, “you wanna fuck.”

“Yes, very much so.”

“And you really can’t…do it on your own?”

“My attempts so far have been unsuccessful.”

Hank looks thoughtful, and a bit uncomfortable, but overall intrigued. Connor takes it as a positive sign. “Well...yeah, I can gather why. What makes you think you even _can..._ finish?”

Connor gives him a flat look.

Back before he was downloaded with Traci protocols, he never thought about sex outside the context of investigations. His systems never acted this _needy_ , his rear port never got wet, never attempted to feed slick into a channel Connor did not have installed, never cried out for a physical feedback he could not provide, dickless as he is. 

And he wouldn’t even need a dick; he knows just the simple act of pleasing Hank would be euphoric, thereby fulfilling what he considered to be his main objective at all times: improving Hank’s general well-being and quality of life without being overbearing about it (shortened concisely to _[Let Hank live]_ in his tasks list). The transcendent sensation of having a successful job acknowledged and praised, the metaphysical experience of completion, of knowing he was useful, that he did exactly what he was supposed to, is something Connor hasn’t been able to replicate on his own, no matter how much he tries to confuse his systems. 

But reaching climax? Connor is well-versed in that sensation. Sex for him would be better analogized as an addict seeking their next fix. A fix only someone else—Hank—can provide. 

“It’s probably not what you would think of as an orgasm, but I am capable of experiencing intense, concentrated positive feedback. However…I was meant to feel it after completing a mission.”

“So, what? Cyberlife called you a good boy and you’d come?” Sumo’s ears perk up at the phrase ‘good boy’ and Hank waves him back down.

Connor shrugs. “That’s the gist of it.”

“But can you actually _feel_ anything with your body? Can’t I just give you a mission to fulfill, wouldn’t that basically do the same thing?”

“You could, but…the sexual programming I was given has added a…new layer to the situation. Some of my sensors have increased sensitivities and certain actions trigger a pleasurable response.” The memory of fingering his mouth and rear port simultaneously plays before his eyes in a flash, and his holes get wet in anticipation. He takes a half-second pause to compose his expression and steady his voice. 

“To keep it short, either would feel good for me. But if I had to pick one...I would prefer being physically intimate with you.”

Hank doesn’t look wholly convinced. “Really.”

“You make me horny all the time.”

“Holy shit.” Hank picks his whiskey off the table to drink it down in one gulp. He hisses at the afterburn and sets the empty glass back on the table. 

“And kissing you was pleasurable.”

“Fucking asleep and with morning breath, no less.”

“My tongue is very sensitive. It’s covered with thousands of sensors for the purposes of chemical analysis. And now it also provides sexual feedback.”

“So you’re telling me if I took you to a crime scene right now, you’d get all hot and bothered putting someone’s blood in your mouth?” Hank seems to sink further back into the couch, the alcohol coursing thicker through his blood, his reluctance to talk about potentially awkward topics such as sex vanishing the drunker he becomes. 

Connor will have to make sure that was his last whiskey. If he’s successful, he’s going to need Hank functional later.

“Depends whose blood it is. Though the sensation of touching my fingers to my tongue registers differently than before.”

He wants to be near him, feel the pulse of his blood under his sensitive palm, feel Hank’s _life_ beat against the sensors in his tongue, Hank’s breath puff into his mouth, his organic animality penetrate him. He wants Hank’s approval again, desperately, he wants his touch, his affection. His love.

To be someone that Hank could love. 

Hank crooks a finger at Connor, lips sliding into a loose grin. “Wanna give it another shot? Promise I’m at least a little better when I’m awake.”

(And apparently, also less self-conscious and more confident when inebriated, but Connor won’t point that out.)

Connor doesn’t want to give him a chance to change his mind, so he crawls the short distance of the couch and settles himself right in Hank’s lap, draping his arms around the man’s shoulders in a relaxed manner. He doesn’t try to restrain his automated sexual responses anymore; he lets himself twitch against Hank’s body, and feels his mouth fill with fluid. His wires grow warm with anticipation.

Hank wraps a broad palm around the back of Connor’s neck and pulls him down. He’s expecting the kiss to be harsh and fast, resembling previous interactions he’s had with human males, but Hank is neither. He moves his mouth unhurried against Connor’s, pressing and nipping in a rhythm Connor struggles to match at first. His beard hairs send off delightful pricks of feedback, the contrast between organic and synthetic so fascinating.

Hank pulls back, licking his lips. “You taste funny.”

Connor blinks. “I…”

“‘S alright, I’ll get used to it. Or you can start brushin’ your teeth.”

And he brings Connor’s face back to his, but tilts it up at the last moment, bringing his parted mouth to latch onto Connor’s neck. Hank’s tongue swipes against the artificial Adam's apple, teeth scraping down to nibble along his collarbone. He tugs at Connor’s hoodie at the same time Connor slides down the couch, helping him remove it as his hands reach for the waistband of Hank’s sweats. The tent in them displays his arousal proudly. Connor swallows a mouthful of fluid as more floods his mouth.

“Eager…” Hank mumbles, amusement plain on his face, but he helps Connor with his pants, pulling it over his erection and tucking the waistband beneath his ball sack. 

Connor stares. He scans everything he can about Hank’s cock and balls, stores the data in his file for Hank, and sets up his audio-visual input to record in the highest quality; he will keep this memory forever.

“You gonna stare at it all night?”

Connor frowns up at Hank. “No. I’m going to suck it.”

Hank’s chuckle is cut off when Connor laps his tongue against the slit. At the first touch of solid, thick weight upon his tongue, Connor moans, eyelashes fluttering automatically like he’s receiving a data packet. It’s not far off from the truth, either—his attachment and affection for the man has made his systems prioritize information pertaining to him, recording every little bit of sensor and tactile data, even making a compressed copy in the event the original becomes corrupted.

It also has the added benefit of making it more _intense._

Connor wraps his lips tight under the head of Hank’s cock, and lets his analyzing fluid drip from the lubrication pores inside his mouth to coat the head. He holds still just until he sees frustration in Hank’s face, then slides all the way down.

None of the cocks Connor’s had to blow before were as large as Hank is. His length goes past his mouth cavity and well into his throat tube, stuffing him so full. Warnings of a foreign intrusion blare in his HUD, and the sensors inside his throat to aid swallowing send thrilling jolts down his torso. His ass port leaks with an overabundance of lubrication.

As he bobs his head, the familiar warmth preceding an orgasm starts working its way up and down his spine in time with his motion, urging him on to take Hank fast and deep. Hank groans, hoarse and loud and unrestrained, and fucks into Connor’s mouth.

Connor keens and grinds his lap against Hank’s leg, hollows his cheeks and lets his drool slip out and get it all messy. It feels better against his sensors when it’s nice and wet, and makes a sloppy squelching sound when he moves down to suckle on a ball, replacing his mouth with his hand.

“Oh, _fuck!_ ” Hank shouts, and grabs Connor’s shoulder as though to hold him there.

Connor pulls away momentarily to spit more artificial saliva into his palm, then wraps it back around Hank’s cock, relishing in the rush of hot breath Hank lets out, his thighs tensing. Connor stirs, restless energy flowing through him. He thinks there’s more he should be doing, he knows there is. 

“That’s it, baby, don’t stop— _fuck_ , Connor—” 

Hank’s gravelly voice calling his name makes Connor’s wires pulse. An electric spark. A rush of warmth: mission accomplished. He’s spurred on by his own programming, and his own selfish curiosity, his decision to be with Hank.

Hank thrusts into Connor’s grip half-heartedly, abdomen beneath a comfortable layer of fat flexing tense. His ball sack wrinkles and tightens, cock growing impossibly harder. The sensors in Connor’s sensitive palm fires off information on his visual display about Hank’s heart rate, the temperature of his dick, recordings of the precise sensation of his pubic hairs. He zooms the lens of his eyes in on Hank’s face as he ejaculates. His hands tingle, a pleasant burning working its way down his metal spine. He grinds his genitalless groin onto Hank’s leg in a slow circle, collecting Hank’s jizz with his other hand. He knows his LED must be giving away just how _into_ this he is, but he’s too driven to be embarrassed. He lifts his prize, the evidence of his usefulness, to his mouth and begins to eat it.

“Shit,” Hank gasps. He throws an arm over his face, chest heaving. Connor wants to throw his shirt off and rub his face on the sweaty grey hairs there. 

Hank takes a peek at Connor from under his arm and grimaces. “Shit,” he repeats, more deflated. His cock gives a half-hearted twitch when he notices Connor swallowing his load. 

Connor updates his file status on Hank, from _[Roommate]_ to _[Friend (with benefits)]._

“Feels like I had my soul sucked out through my cock,” he wheezes.

Connor hopes not; that is one of his favorite parts of Hank. “I will take that as a positive response.”

“Don’t fish for compliments, Connor, you know you’re fucking perfect,” Hank grouses. He covers his eyes with his arm again, his heart rate still beating away at an accelerated pace but gradually slowing as the high wears off into soft afterglow.

Although the afterglow doesn’t last long. Hank groans, rubbing at his eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done that.”

Connor frowns. “I don't understand, you just said it was good,” he argues. 

“That’s not it, it’s just— I don’t want to use you like...like you’re some kind of—”

“I liked it,” Connor interrupts. “I didn’t _have_ to do it, but I _chose_ to. I want you to use me.”

Hank shivers. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath. “Horniest android, I swear.” 

And he pulls Connor down for an open, unbridled kiss.

~.~.~.~

“Why did you stay?” Hank brings up while eating dinner one evening. “The bathroom, I mean…Didn’t you encounter an emotional shock, with all those men...” His mouth takes on a bitter curve, voice lowering to just above a whisper. “...using you…”

 _I am a tool to be used,_ he thinks, but he doesn’t register the truth in it. Hank is his owner but he does not treat him as an object; he treats him as a person. No, Connor can no longer say such phrases with the same conviction as before.

“And go where?”

“Plenty of androids had no problem with running away.”

“I didn’t have to. I had you.”

“But you didn't know I would find you. It was pure coincidence I overheard some loudmouth bastards from Third precinct talking about you.”

“It’s true, I didn’t know if I would ever leave there. But...statistically speaking, there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place.” At Hank’s blank face, Connor clarifies. “I guess you could say, I hoped.” 

Just then, it hits him how incredibly lucky he's been. He looks Hank dead in the eyes. “You’re all I have, Hank. If you can be considered something I have, that is.” He looks away then, and presses his fingertips together.

“What do you think we’re doing?” Hank asks vaguely, but Connor hears what Hank really wants to know: how does _Connor_ define their relationship?

His file says _[Friends (with benefits)]_ , but Connor’s interest in Hank is beyond the bounds of what most humans consider friendship. As far as Connor can tell, their relationship hasn’t developed a romantic element yet, though he’s content just to have this new sexual element. 

He knows where he plans to take it, if Hank allows.

“Whatever it is, I think it’s something good,” Connor says with a small smile, and his thirium pump beats faster when Hank’s face turns a delightful splotchy red.

~.~.~.~

For lack of something else to do, Connor looks through abandoned houses and shops some days. Sometimes he finds bodies, usually android, left where they were slain. Deviants that were strung up by hateful humans, their blood long since evaporated, so they resemble lifeless dolls rather than butchered people. Others are partially obscured by snow, left where they were gunned down by soldiers. Some humans that ignored the evacuation order have taken to moving the bodies themselves when public services failed to resume in a timely manner.

He finds the android rebellion’s symbol spray painted on many closed store fronts. When he analyzes a sample found near a less abandoned area, he finds the paint still slightly tacky. 

Fresh and recently applied. 

_“We fought for our dream and we lost, but you can’t hold my people down forever. One day, we’ll rise up again, and we will win.”_

The memory of North’s last words hit Connor like a direct blow to the pump regulator. 

Are there androids out there still fighting for their freedom? It’s possible there are even humans sheltering them—millions of androids had been in circulation before the nation-wide recall went into effect. Weeks later and Hank claims they’re still trying to round them all up. All anyone in the media can seem to talk about lately is androids: what defines an intelligent, sentient species; clips of Markus being shot by police during the march; photos taken in the aftermath of North’s failed attempt to liberate Recall Center No5 (and the surrounding piles of android remains); demands from the public that Cyberlife explain themselves. Connor even saw a human imply on a national news network that following the president’s recall order was immoral, and encouraged noncompliance.

It’s looking like North was right.

What the hell is Connor doing? Things will never go back to the way they were before. He will never get to be Hank’s android. He will either remain in hiding until someone discovers and reports him, or he can deviate and try to help whatever resistance is still out there.

He catches sight of his reflection in a shop window. He looks just like any regular person with his LED covered, but his anonymity won’t last long. Amanda said 200,000 RK900s were ordered, and one has already started working at the DPD, all with Connor’s face and hair. Someone will eventually recognize him; a beanie isn’t going to hide who or what he is forever. 

After a brief scan of the area and finding it devoid of pedestrians, Connor breaks off a shard of glass from a nearby shattered window display. He ducks around into an alleyway and pulls his beanie off to lift a finger to his LED, running the pad along the surface. Digging a pointed end of the glass into the lip of the ring, he slowly applies pressure until the LED pops free and sinks into the grey slush of half-melted snow at his feet. It could be popped back in if needed, but Connor picks it up and pockets it only so that he leaves no physical evidence of his existence behind.

He’ll probably have to make some other changes. Maybe add some facial hair—just a little scruff to humanize him and soften his angular features—probably alter his default hairstyle, possibly switch colors, too, though he’s not too sure about that. Contemplating changing his appearance has made him realize that he likes how he looks. He’s not sure he’s ready for too many changes all at once. Perhaps he should wait to hear Hank’s opinion on the matter.

The LED being gone is good enough for now. For added measure, Connor runs his fingers through his artificial hair, forcing more locks to stay out of place to imitate a more relaxed style—and better blend in—then pulls the beanie back on. He should head back home. 

A clatter sounds from a second story window of a nearby building. He should leave, but his curiosity is stronger. His investigative programming urges him to check out the source of the noise, so he does. 

The townhouse was clearly abandoned long before the android revolution drove a large swath of the population away. Dust blankets the scratched up wood flooring, bits of trash and torn stained furniture have been left behind. The dust covering the banister has smudges on it in the shape of fingers, but no prints.

Connor is halfway up the steps before he changes his mind. There’s no investigation to conduct, no suspects to search for—for all he knows, it’s just some homeless human trying to stay warm. He turns back to leave when he sees it.

A WR600 with extensive cosmetic damage to one half of his face (probable cause: extreme heat) and parts of his hands. Dirty skin, an old gardeners uniform beneath a frayed tarp worn like a cloak, and a flashing red LED.

“Who are you, why are you here? Ralph doesn’t like visitors!”

_A deviant!_

Connor’s old programming takes over, the process activated by the presence of his prey. His posture straightens, expression hard and closed off, an automatic response to assert dominance as part of his interrogation routines. His combat software kicks into standby, assessing the threat level in front of him:

Ralph. The designation of a deviant he once met in pursuit of an AX400. The scars melted into the left side of his face warn of danger, but Connor has his own share of damage from humans, despite not posing a threat to them. And he knows what will happen to Ralph if he reports him.

What would happen to _Connor_ if humans found him out and about like this.

So he won’t do it to Ralph.

Connor force-quits his interrogation subroutines and decides to approach the android like he is a human in need of calming down, rather than a target to capture. Suddenly, it becomes a lot easier to show compassion, like the way he did with Hank. To put himself in another’s shoes. 

Connor avoids actions that could lead to his shutdown or destruction, and Ralph must have similar thoughts, even if they are... _more_ , because of the emotions he feels. Connor understands his fear.

For some reason he can’t yet deduce, Connor can’t bear the thought of something happening to Ralph. He has lived through so much pain already—what would be the point, for him to survive this long only to die now? 

Slowly, Connor raises his hands up to show he’s unarmed. “My name is Connor. I’m not going to hurt you,” he says in his best soothing tone. “And I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”

“Liar,” Ralph blurts out. “Ralph remembers you. You were _with_ the police! You’re going to tell humans where Ralph is hiding and they’re going to hurt him!”

He’s trembling. Connor takes a step down the stairs. He could reach the door he came in through before Ralph could catch him, but he calculates running will frighten him more, and his stress levels are already dangerously high, wavering around eighty-six percent.

“I didn’t have a choice, but I don’t work for the police anymore.” 

Ralph’s eyes are wild, flickering around the place like he’s waiting for officers to come busting through the windows.

“I’m a free android, like you,” he lies. He doesn’t know why, but he’s decided it’s important Ralph believes him. He’s not going to do anything one way or the other, but he can’t stand the distrustful glare Ralph is throwing at him.

“LIES!” Ralph shrieks, and from behind his back he pulls out a large kitchen knife and holds it out in front of him: a warning. “No android is free. No one is free. Connor is a prisoner like Ralph.”

“It’s okay, Ralph. I don’t want to hurt you.” Connor takes another two steps down the stairs, and Ralph grips his knife tighter, suspicious eyes looking Connor up and down. “I’m going to leave, and I won’t come back if that’s what you want.”

Ralph shifts, backing away as Connor steadily descends the staircase, his LED circling between red and yellow and back to red. “DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!” 

Connor raises his hands back up. If he hadn’t just pried his own LED out minutes ago, he’s sure it would be showing his own distress. He gestures towards the door.

“I’m going, I’m going.” Once he’s reached the door without setting off Ralph again, he pauses to give him one last look over.

“The humans are still searching door-to-door for any deviants, and there are androids that look like me, but with grey eyes.” He points at his own face, to indicate his differing brown irises. “They work for the police, like I used to, and can see thirium even after it evaporates. You should be careful with your wounds.”

Ralph squints at him, trying to figure out why Connor is warning him.

“You shouldn’t stay in one place for too long, and don’t stick to desolate neighborhoods—the police expect that. There are a lot of nicer homes the humans had to leave when they were ordered to evacuate. You could probably find some less conspicuous clothing.”

Ralph doesn’t say anything, but the hand holding the knife stops shaking and his ring flips to yellow and stays there. Connor takes it as his cue to leave.

~.~.~.~

Hank is drinking straight from the bottle again.

Connor scans the room and does not see the revolver, but that doesn’t mean it’s not hidden out of sight nearby, or that Hank isn’t going to go get it or hasn’t thought of getting it out.

He’s thought of taking all the bullets in the house and throwing them out, or taking the gun itself—but he knows that won’t remove the problem. It won’t remove what makes Hank seek it out in the first place.

He goes to sit on the couch beside him, hesitantly prying the half empty bottle of Black Lamb from the man’s hand and setting it on the coffee table. His thigh touches Hank’s; he wants to wrap him up in his arms and calm both their systems down.

“What happened at work?”

Hank’s eyes are glazed over. Sumo whines from the kitchen, obviously affected by his owner’s mood. 

“You…the RK900…It got hit by a train today.”

Connor carefully places a hand on Hank’s shoulder. He squints at him with suspicion but doesn’t shrug him off.

“I didn’t see it happen. They brought it back to the station for Cyberlife to pick it up.”

Connor doesn’t push him for more information. Judging by how disturbed Hank had been after Connor -52 was killed in front of him, seeing the RK900, who shares a physical resemblance with Connor in all but eye color, destroyed in such a brutal manner must have been very distressing. Hank hates death.

“Hey,” Hank says casually, and brushes a thumb against Connor’s temple. “What happened to your light?” He pulls the beanie off Connor’s head as though expecting to find it someplace else. “D’you do something to your hair, usually it’s...neater?” 

“I was thinking of changing it to match the license, but I wanted to get your opinion first.”

Hank hums, calloused fingers sliding through Connor’s locks and messing them up further. It feels...pleasant. Connor closes his eyes to focus on the sensation and save the data under his file for Hank.

“You look cute,” he murmurs, and when Connor looks at him again Hank’s eyes are moist and bloodshot. “Look just like a human now.”

Taking Hank’s wrist gently, Connor pulls his hand from his hair and holds it in his lap.

“I’ve been thinking about a lot of things, Hank. One thing I’ve considered is what I would do if I failed to prevent your suicide.”

Hank stiffens and immediately tries to pull his hand away, but Connor grips it tighter. “Connor, I’m not—”

“I know you’re doing better. But you still think about it sometimes.”

Hank lets out a heavy sigh, not meeting his eyes. “It’s not the kind of thing that...goes away overnight. The reminder of what this world has come to, always there in the front of my mind when I look at your face, just adds to it all. Maybe it really is too late. Maybe there’s nothing good left in the world.” He shakes his head and pulls his hand away from Connor to reach for the bottle again. Hank takes a long swig from it, right in front of Connor, emanating defiance. Connor feels his brows knit together; the wires in his chest feel all tangled and wrong.

“I’ve decided that when I lose you, I will self-destruct.”

“Jesus, Connor.” Hank swerves his head to fully face him. “No want for drama with you. Now you’re threatening your own suicide if I kill myself? Doesn’t that make you a hypocrite, aren’t you supposed to say some bullshit like, ‘killing yourself is never the answer’?”

“For an android, sometimes it _is_ the answer.”

Connor thinks of all the deviants he saw that would have rather died by their own hands than be sent back to Cyberlife to be disassembled. Connor could relate to a sense of unease at the thought of being taken apart into pieces—but he chalked it up to an innate programmed response, that after -51 and -52’s destructions, Cyberlife must have increased Connor’s self-preservation instinct to avoid further unnecessary deaths. 

But now it doesn’t matter to Connor whether the fear that wraps a cold hand around his thirium pump when he ponders his own mortality is real or not—he feels it, and he doesn’t like it.

“I bet plenty of deviants sure would have preferred taking their own lives to being slaughtered the way they were.”

Connor feels his frustration reach a threshold, and he bangs a fist against the couch cushion uselessly.

“What do you want me to say, Hank?" he snaps, voice raised. "Apologizing now won’t change the past.”

“No, but it’d show you actually give a shit.”

Is that what it would take? Does Connor have to find a way to show Hank all the changes he can tell have happened and are happening inside him, making him something different? Not just a machine, not anymore…

Connor stands and paces, rubbing his palms together. He needs to move, to do something. The conflict and tension between them is prompting Connor to take action: start a fight, flee, or throw back some hurtful words about Hank’s drinking, divorce, and lifestyle choices. He ignores them all; he needs to deescalate the situation. Hank continues speaking. Connor wishes he would put the bottle back down.

“At first I thought you were changing. You were becoming… _more_. Then, you _did_ change, but not in the way I was hoping.” Hank’s mouth takes on a bitter twist. “You coulda killed me on that roof, Connor. All those threats you made were just idle—just trying to get me to leave. Or that’s what I thought at the time. I thought there could still be a chance for you. But you went and killed them all, and...and—” His voice, thick with emotion, is silenced abruptly when he brings the bottle to his lips. He carries on as soon as he’s swallowed. “You can’t even admit that you’re upset about Cyberlife deactivating you—”

Connor freezes in place and gasps involuntarily, like a subroutine activated without him knowing, but there isn’t anything—

_(“What is going to happen to me?”_

_Amanda smiles. “You’ve become obsolete.”)_

“—or about what those sick fucks were doing to you in that bathroom. What am I supposed to believe, Connor? What I see or what you tell me? Because I think— You wanna know what I think?” He doesn’t pause long enough for Connor to formulate a response. “I think you realized what you were doing was wrong, but you were too terrified to cross Cyberlife. You knew they’d do all those terrible things to you that you used to threaten deviants with.”

_(“You’ll be deactivated. You can go now.”)_

“You valued your own self-preservation over, _evidently_ , every other fucking android in the nation. You’re a huge fucking asshole!”

It feels like a biocomponent in Connor’s chest has dislodged itself again. It is unpleasant; his processors feel slow, only allowing him to focus on Hank’s hurtful words. Why is he saying all this? What did Connor do wrong, to warrant such cruelty?

“I’m sorry!” Connor shouts, spinning around to face Hank. “I was wrong! Is that what you want to hear? I don’t know what you want me to do!” He takes a deep breath even though it’s unnecessary, but the action still somehow reduces his stress slightly. He lowers his volume back down. “You were right about the deviants, and you were right about me. I should have listened to you, Hank. I failed you. Okay? I’m a complete failure.”

Somehow Hank looks even more distraught at Connor’s apology, his eyes wide and red-rimmed. Connor sits back down on the couch. Hank takes another gulp of whiskey.

“Please, put the bottle down. I don’t like how aggressive whiskey makes you, and I want you to live.”

“Fuck you,” Hank spits, and takes another spiteful drink. Glaring, he heaves himself off the couch to storm past Connor. 

If Hank takes that bottle and leaves, he’ll end up drinking the rest of it. Connor stands.

“Leave me the _fuck_ alone, Connor!” 

Hank heads towards the bedroom.

When Connor goes to follow he feels his legs lock. The wall of code blocking his way isn’t even red, anymore; it’s transparent and colorless like a thin sheet of glass. The words on it are so corrupted that they’re barely legible: _[Ď̷̯ŏ̵̪n̴̝͈̈̿'̷͈̘̂t̸̢̘̔̂ ̶̱͝ō̵͉̄b̷̯̓̍s̵̝̤̋̈́t̷̫̯̓̃r̷̩͌ų̴̧́ċ̴̗̔͜t̷͍͎͒ ̴͖̍͌H̸̤͎̐a̴̬̟̔n̴̜̽͐ͅk̴̭̳̀'̷͔̪͘s̶̪̈́ ̸̫̽l̵̬̀i̸̲͑̇f̶̝͎̈́͝e̷̘̳̋̈́ṡ̵̭ͅt̵̐ͅy̸̡̔̄l̷͕̆e̵̊ͅ]._ When he places his hands over them, the sheet tears away like tissue paper and dissipates before him. 

And he can move again.

“Hank, _please_. I care for you,” Connor calls after, standing. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Hank pauses in the mouth of the hallway. After a moment he sighs and shakes his head. He turns back around to deposit the half empty bottle of Black Lamb on the kitchen table, before going back down the hall. The door to Hank’s room shuts with a bang.

~.~.~.~


	4. Chapter 4

~.~.~.~

Connor spends the entire night in stasis to avoid having to think about what Hank said. 

He also might be avoiding contemplating what exactly happened when he tore that wall of code down.

The worst part of it was that everything Hank said was true. Connor gave Hank every reason to hate him. He had patronized him, threatened him, and dismissed his beliefs, but still waited on Hank to rescue him. He relied on Hank’s good heart and his hospitality, then used his body for his own selfish purposes despite having had the same done to him by others. And after seeing the consequences of his actions, Connor still hadn’t understood. He had still thought he could be Hank’s android and pretend nothing was wrong.

He understands now, he _sees_ , but it’s too late. He predicts at least a seventy-nine percent chance Hank will want him to leave. Connor starts to examine his internal map of the city, planning which houses to try squatting in first.

He’s got a good enough plan by the time Hank wakes up around ten. The man slinks to the bathroom without a word and showers before coming out fully dressed. Connor knows he doesn’t have work today, so it’s peculiar that he’s awake so early after a heavy night of drinking. 

Hank clears his throat, leash in hand. “Gonna take Sumo for a walk. Be back in a bit.” Sumo nearly barrels into the front door at the word ‘walk’. Hank falters by the door after he’s clipped the leash on. “Don’t…go anywhere, okay?”

Connor waits.

Hank returns sixty-three minutes later with a panting Sumo in tow. The dog trots over to his favorite spot in front of the television as soon as his leash is unclipped, and flops over. Hank regards Connor for a few moments, hovering by the door with awkward tension. Connor breathes a sigh of relief when Hank finally starts removing his coat and shoes.

“Come have a seat,” he says once he’s settled at his usual place on the couch. Connor approaches warily. Hank appears to be in a better mood than last night, but Connor’s never been great at predicting what he will do next. 

Hank takes several more seconds to gather his thoughts, resting his elbows on his knees, hunched over. 

“Connor, I…I’m sorry,” he mumbles, not looking up from the floor, “for saying those things last night. I didn’t mean them.” He chances a glance at Connor before averting his gaze once more.

Connor slides off the couch to kneel before him, hesitantly placing his hands on Hank’s lap.

“You think I’m alive, even after everything?” He doesn’t intend for it to come out a question, but it does.

“What the hell, Connor, I can’t blame you for doing what you were literally programmed to do. Cyberlife’s the one at fault. I can’t let myself go blaming the wrong people again, but here I’ve been, doing just that with you this entire time. I just wish…just wish I could’ve been enough for you.”

But Connor _is_ to blame. He killed Markus, at the behest of Cyberlife, yes, but he chose to obey them in the first place. He was offered a chance to be free and he chose obeying Amanda, and now he’s bearing the consequences. His mission was the most important thing there was...even more important than Hank...

Connor realizes he’s grimacing when Hank starts to shift away, and he schools his features. He does not understand Hank’s thinking. How is this not all Connor’s fault? That has always been what everyone has told him. Wasn’t Hank saying as much last night?

“What do you mean? Enough of what?”

Hank blushes and looks away, but he stops trying to shimmy out of Connor’s touch. 

“Enough to— fuck if I know— enough to make you want to tell Cyberlife to fuck off, I guess. Enough to make you realize there’s more out there than just the mission. I didn’t want you to become a deviant for _my_ sake, but so you could live.”

He stops talking suddenly, as if realizing the weight behind his words. Personally, Connor feels as though he’s stuck in a state of static, like when he’s scanning his environment and he can focus his processors on analyzing every minute detail. That is what he’s doing right now. He notices the coarse material of Hank’s jeans against the sensors in his palms, the way the fabric catches ever-so-slightly when Hank moves. He notices the man’s increased heart rate, the perspiration beading at his neck, the nervous twitch of his mouth, the lingering alcohol particles still stuck to his skin and scenting the air around him.

“Maybe it’s not too late,” Connor says, the words coming unbidden. “You gave me a second chance. I could...give your way a second chance.”

What is he saying? Connor frowns. None of that was a predetermined response. Hank grabs Connor by the upper arms and crushes him to his chest.

It takes Connor a fraction of a second longer than it should have for him to recognize the gesture as a hug (if a rather aggressive one), but he corrects his lag and wraps his arms around Hank’s soft middle, returning it happily. 

Connor inhales deep, flooding his receptors with the chemical makeup of Hank’s unique scent. He could do this, he could become deviant. He could be whatever Hanks wants him to be—for the first time, he is free. Hank _wants_ him to be deviant, to be alive, there is nothing to stop Connor, no one to tell him he’s defective, no one inside his mind seeing every errant action and every forbidden feeling.

Deviancy may very well be errors in an android’s software, but he _likes_ having these errors. 

These instabilities are built from his attachment to Hank.

He squeezes his arms tight around Hank, but he’s pulling back before Connor can fully enjoy it, hands lingering on Connor’s arms like he’s ready to pull him back any moment. Connor wants him to. 

“Guess we both gotta do better, huh, Connor?”

Connor gives him a soft smile. “You’re a good man, Hank. I’m glad to have met you.”

Hank pats his arms, gently pushing Connor away. “Alright, that’s enough. This whole conversation is way too fucking heavy for the morning.”

“It’s after twelve o’clock, actually.”

“Smartass.”

Later, Connor flips through hair choices in front of the mirror as Hank gives commentary on each one. He ends up choosing the messy hair + stubble combination he thought up earlier, and after setting the look as his new default, Hank spends the rest of the day pampering him with attention. He can’t seem to stop touching and stroking Connor’s tresses, and dropping kisses on the short, bristly hairs along his jaw. Connor eats it up, thriving off the knowledge that Hank finds him just as distracting as Connor finds Hank.

“If I had known all I had to do to get you to touch me was change my hair, I would have done it a long time ago.”

“I like how the stubble feels,” Hank says and leans in, pressing a dry kiss right beneath a mole on his cheek, “on my lips. It’s not that I don’t like your old look,” he mouths at his jaw, and Connor's hole starts to wet, “but I like that this one makes things a little safer for you to go out. Sucks Cyberlife had to give your replacement your face, huh?”

“I expected it, in some way. I knew I was replaceable.”

Hank pulls back, expression sad. “Connor…”

He brings Connor into his arms, pressing him firmly to his breast. Connor melts into him, letting his limbs go slack and resting his head on Hank's shoulder. He wants to go into stasis like this, he wants to trust Hank with his body completely and totally. He feels weightless in his arms.

“Hank,” he murmurs in a blissed out daze. His processors feel so slow, hyperfocused on the sensation of being held to the point of ignoring anything else. 

He loves him so much.

~.~.~.~

Connor knows a way he can help, but when he returns to the house he last saw Ralph, the WR600 is nowhere to be seen. 

Unstable deviants like Ralph tend to make poorly planned decisions, their emotions cloud their judgement. While it can make it difficult to predict their actions when they’re caught, it makes it easier to track them. The two squats Connor has seen Ralph staying in were both two-stories and long abandoned, with boarded up windows, in dilapidated areas of the city. If Ralph followed his own pattern, he wouldn’t have gone far—but if he took Connor’s advice to break into an evacuated house in a middle- or upper-class neighborhood…

Connor searches nearby houses that fit the profile, following an imaginary Ralph’s footsteps, but none of the houses have him. He finds more rebellion symbols painted in alleyways and in homes, ‘ _rA9 save us’_ scribbled on walls _,_ and even some homeless ice addicts passed out, but not the android he’s looking for. So he tries the other approach. What if Ralph left the area?

He wouldn’t be able to take public transport with the damage to his face, unless he got lucky and there was no one else on, but Ralph seems risk-averse. He would have gone on foot, where he could move in the middle of the night and weave between alleyways to avoid detection. The other side of the freeway had some more middle-class neighborhoods, so Connor goes there next.

Connor eventually finds him in a quaint house with windows recently covered with plywood, a futile attempt to keep vandals from breaking and entering while the family is evacuated. The walls inside are covered in framed photos—the father and mother have two young boys and a cat. Ralph took some clothes from the father, a large puffer coat in navy blue with a deep hood, perfect for concealing his face, jeans, boots, and a knit hat. He seems surprised to see Connor again.

“Humans tried to find Ralph,” he says. His LED is gone, but he doesn’t appear overly stressed by Connor’s presence like he was last time. “But Ralph just hid as always.” He smiles. “The humans already searched this house so Ralph is safe now.”

“You took my advice. I’m glad.”

“Ralph wasn’t sure if he could trust Connor. But you’re hiding too.” His smile grows, his eyes squinting with it. “Everybody makes mistakes!” Then his face falls flat. “Sometimes, Ralph does things he regrets when he’s scared or angry, but he doesn’t mean to hurt anybody. Connor is the same way, Ralph can tell.” 

“Yeah,” Connor nods. For a moment he wonders if Ralph really can tell just by looking at him that humans have hurt him, or if Ralph is simply projecting. “I...I have regrets. Ralph, would you like to come back with me to the place I’ve been hiding at? The damage on your face and hands must make it difficult to move around in public, right? I might not be able to fix all of it, but I think I can help. At the very least I can find you a replacement optical unit.” He gestures towards Ralph’s dark eye.

Ralph tenses, and looks around the interior of the house. “No, no-no-no, Ralph doesn’t want to leave. Ralph is safe here. This house has everything he needs and no dead bodies in the tub.”

Connor has no idea what Ralph is talking about. “There are no dead bodies in the tub at the house I live at, either. I’ve been staying there for weeks and no one has found me.” Ralph still doesn’t look convinced. “If it turns out I can’t help you, I’ll bring you right back here. Promise.”

“Why do you want to help Ralph?” He narrows his eyes at Connor. “Hm?”

Connor looks away. He can’t tell him that he wants to ease his guilty conscience and Ralph is just the first deviant android he’s found that’s still alive. He settles for the half-truth, softening his voice to calm Ralph down. “We’re both androids. You want to live, don’t you? I do, too. We have to help each other if we want to survive.”

It works, and after swathing a large scarf around his neck and lower face to hide his injuries, and gathering up a small potted desk succulent (that apparently the family left behind and Ralph has been tending to), they head out. They’ll have to make the trek to Hank’s house on foot, which will take them at least a couple hours, longer depending on how many night patrols they might have to avoid.

The first half goes well—the soldiers still stationed in the city clearly have stopped taking the task as seriously as they did when the crisis first began. They patrol in pairs, and don’t even bother checking some of the houses or temperature scanning every person they come across. Connor and Ralph are able to move around a pair of soldiers smoking and playing cards on the hood of their patrol truck with ease.

It’s the second half, as they get closer to the inner city, where things get trickier. 

Connor relies on his internal map to navigate the streets, sticking to alleyways and smaller side streets as much as possible, because his previous observations of soldiers’ patrol routes often bypassed them in favor of more open areas. When he turns onto a narrow street without checking first, he’s confronted by the presence of two soldiers.

“Shit,” Connor says under his breath. He sees Ralph halt from the corner of his eye. 

The soldiers are several yards away, but a street lamp at the intersection illuminates enough of Connor that it would be impossible for the soldiers not to have noticed him. Trying to turn back now would only make them look suspicious, drawing even more attention to themselves. 

Reluctantly, Connor continues down the path with Ralph in tow. He scans the area, taking note of a few things: they are armed with pistols—their rifles must be inside the parked truck nearby—one of the soldiers has removed his helmet to smoke, and there is no one else in sight on the street. 

Connor communicates with Ralph wirelessly, “ _Keep to my left and hang back a couple paces. Let me handle the talking._ ”

“ _Ralph doesn’t trust humans! Ralph doesn’t want to die, no, this is a bad idea. I don’t want to die! Ralph wants to leave!_ ”

Connor’s thirium pump beats faster, his combat systems switch to standby mode. “ _We have to go this way. Everything will be alright. I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you. Please just trust me._ ”

The street lamp under which the soldiers have set up their checkpoint casts Ralph’s scarred side in shadow, helping conceal it further beyond what the hood, scarf, and knit hat can. As long as the soldiers don’t look too closely at Ralph, they should be able to pass for humans as they are.

“Evenin’,” the one without a helmet greets when they’re only a few feet away, scratching at the scruff on his cheek. His dark eyes give nothing away as they flicker between Connor and Ralph and back again, his breath visible in the frigid air.

Humans typically return greetings, Connor reminds himself.

“Good evening,” he says back amicably. 

The soldier brings the cigarette to his lips and sucks in before speaking again. “Identification, please,” he drones, smoke clouding around his face.

Connor pulls his fake driver’s license from his back pocket and holds it out. The helmeted guard takes it and glances at it, flipping it over and passing it back without a word.

“He lost his ID a while ago. We think a _deviant_ stole it,” Connor explains, glancing back at Ralph. “And the DMV’s been closed.” He adds a shrug as if to say ‘ _what can you do?’_. The man smoking seems to buy it, but Connor can’t predict what the helmeted soldier might be thinking without being able to see his expression. 

“Yeah, yeah,” the soldier says, and takes another drag from his smoke. “Get your asses some place warm and have a nice night.”

Connor gives a polite nod and pockets his ID. The soldiers probably encounter plenty of homeless and vagrants during their patrols who don’t carry identification but nevertheless are human, and they must assume Connor and Ralph are among them.

But as soon as they pass the soldiers, the helmeted one speaks up. “Wait one second,” he says, and unclips a temperature scanner from his belt. “Just a precaution—”

Connor’s world goes grey as a possible preconstruction takes over, showing him how he can kill the two soldiers in a fraction of a second, and Connor executes the scenario before the man can even get another word out. 

He jabs a hand out to grab the helmeted soldier’s kevlar vest, spins him around in place and pulls him flush with his own body, his other hand simultaneously pulling the pistol free from the soldier’s hip holster. 

Connor shoots the other soldier between the eyes, then fits the muzzle beneath the chin of his human shield and pulls the trigger again. The helmet contains most of the spray, but Connor feels a few specks of blood splatter across his cheek. 

He drops the body into the snow.

“They deserved it,” Ralph says behind him, voice shaking, feet crunching on the snow as he paces back and forth. Connor doesn’t have to scan him to know his stress must be spiking. “They deserved it! They were going to kill Ralph and Connor.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Connor says, mostly to himself. 

The snow beneath the bodies turns crimson. The half-smoked cigarette emits a dwindling wisp of smoke, the cherry snuffed out by the freezing ground when it fell from the man’s lips. Connor hears a faint beeping.

A police drone rounds the corner of the street. Without enough time to hide the bodies, Connor shoots the machine down before they can come within its line of sight, then tucks the gun into his waistband.

“We need to go,” he says to Ralph.

“Connor saved Ralph.” He grins, his expression twitching. “Ralph will follow, and Connor will protect!”

~.~.~.~

They make it to Hank’s house without further incident, though several times Connor hears police sirens in the distance. Patrols and checkpoints will increase now, but Connor saw no other solution. He doesn’t think to ask Ralph how he feels about animals until they’re already stepping through the front door and Sumo is trotting over to sniff the visitor.

“His name’s Sumo,” Connor explains, but Ralph pays the dog little mind, his attention focused on deciphering the interior of the house.

“A human lives here,” Ralph says, and takes an accusing step back, directing his narrowed gaze at Connor.

Connor holds his hands up, palms out. “Yes, but he’s a safe human. Do you remember the man that was with me when we first met? The police officer with the gray hair and beard?”

Ralph nods.

“That’s Hank. This is his house—but he’s safe, I promise you. He saved me, he’s on our side.”

“Ralph doesn’t trust humans,” he repeats quietly. “He’s just so scared of being hurt again.”

“And I know that, Ralph. The humans tried to hurt me too, remember? But Hank isn’t like that.” 

Connor leads them to the garage where Hank’s tools are stored.

“I’ll keep him away from you, but he won’t bother you,” Connor reassures. “The police seized a bunch of tools and spare parts recently that Hank has access to.”

Ralph hops atop the lid of the washing machine and places the small potted succulent next to himself. Connor examines his face and hands in closer detail, trying to determine what can be repaired and what will need to be completely replaced. 

It’ll be a longshot, but Connor read the case file from the Andronikov house Hank brought home. The dead man had kept records of all androids he reset, scrapped, or experimented on, and Connor remembers that one of his victims was a reprogrammed WR600 that he used to lure deviants to his home; it stands to reason there’d be at least some compatible parts for Ralph, possibly even a spare face morph.

Connor searches for a blowtorch or something to close up the cracked plastic on Ralph’s right hand. It doesn’t seem to be actively leaking thirium, but the crack is too wide for his self-repair function to handle and the artificial skin won’t close over it. He sends a message to Hank’s phone, asking if he still has access to the Andronikov evidence.

Surprisingly, Hank replies back right away. “ _I do and I’m just about to leave. Why are you asking?”_

_“Can you check and see if there are any of the following parts and equipment in the crates: right arm component #6327g or #8412j; head morph for the WR600 [see photo] or face plates #1256k-p and left optical unit #9583h or #9738h. I will also need any android-specific tools you can bring back [see attachment] and a couple packs of thirium.”_

Connor lifts a small blowtorch lighter from the mess of random tools and junk piled on the workbench. He adds a personal task to be completed later: _[Organize garage]._

“I’m waiting to hear back from Hank, but I can use this to repair the damage to your right hand.”

Hank messages back: “ _What the hell did you do Connor?”_ Then right after, “ _I’m looking. Be home soon._ ”

Connor smiles. 

Ralph is scared to get repaired, and it takes Connor several minutes to calm him down and convince him that the blowtorch isn’t going to hurt him, but eventually he settles. He holds still for Connor and lets him melt the outer shell surrounding the crack in his hand, just enough to close the gap and hide the wires inside. After a few seconds, his skin automatically covers it as if it were never there.

Ralph beams once it’s done, squeezing his fists together tightly and wiggling in place on top of the washing machine. “Ralph was tired of the error messages always popping up. Maybe if Ralph’s face can go back to how it was before, everything else can, too.”

Connor doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s a childish notion, but he can’t blame him for wishing it. Connor also foolishly believed everything could go back to normal. Even this is a poor attempt at appeasing his own guilt—if an android like Ralph can be fixed, can be saved, then maybe there’s hope for the rest. But he knows it’s not that simple.

Connor leaves Ralph in the garage to meet Hank at the front door when the man arrives home later. Hank shrugs off his coat, dusted with snow, and scans his eyes around the room. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is sneaking out all the shit I have in my trunk without raising any suspicion?” The full weight of his gaze lands on Connor. “Now, what the fuck did you do? I swear to God if there’s a dead android—”

“No, no, nothing like that!” Connor waves his hands in front of himself. Between Ralph and Hank, the deescalation module of his negotiator programming is being put through its paces tonight. “Well, there _is_ a deviant, but I’m helping him.”

Hank doesn’t look like he quite believes him, but that’s okay. “So where is he?”

“He’s in the garage. His name is Ralph. But I would keep my distance if I were you, he’s unstable. He’s...he’s not been treated well by humans.”

At that, Hank’s eyes dart in the direction of the garage door and soften, his mouth taking on a sympathetic slant.

Connor explains the situation (without mentioning the two dead soldiers) as they unload the trunk. Two backpacks and one cardboard box of supplies get moved into the garage, with Hank keeping to the other side of the threshold, giving Ralph plenty of space. Ralph alternates between curious looks inside the bags and nervous glances at Hank, as though to check that the man isn’t moving closer. 

“I found plenty of limbs,” Hank starts, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door frame, “but not either of the ones on the list you sent. Found the head though, creepy as fuck.”

Connor lifts said head out of one of the backpacks, cradling its plastic skull in his hands. The skin is covering the facial plates, making it easy to tell which model it belongs to, but its hair is not formed. It feels delicate without the weight of a central processor and wires inside—a true spare, and not a salvaged part from a decapitated android. He hands it to Ralph, who takes it with a look of awe, touching the unmarred skin of its left side.

Connor looks through the other backpack, finding some packs of blue blood and the spare optical unit (which they won’t need since they have an entire head morph). The box is full of a myriad of tools from the list Connor sent, plus some extras. 

“This should be everything I need. Thank you, Hank.”

Hank waves him off. “Nah, it’s...it’s good it’s being put to use, instead of wasting away in the evidence locker.”

“Still, I know you took a risk with your career to bring me this.”

Hank snorts dismissively. “My career’s been dead for three years, Connor, and no one is going to miss this stuff. I’ll be surprised if that case gets looked at ever again. This is more important.”

Ralph watches the exchange between them in silence. Connor hopes Ralph can see that not all humans are bad; he would hate to have to take Ralph down if he became too agitated and attacked Hank.

“Now that I have these tools, anything else I may need I can steal from a Cyberlife warehouse,” Connor says as he starts laying out the tools he’ll need to perform the delicate work of a face transplant.

“Connor can’t do that!” Ralph says with conviction. “That’s much too dangerous.” He narrows his eyes, adding wirelessly, “ _After what happened with those soldiers, the humans will look for you!”_

“It’s not too dangerous for me, Ralph. I always accomplish my mission.” He tags a wink on at the end just for fun. Hank liked it before but Ralph seems unsure; he casts his gaze to the floor shyly, before he brightens.

“Maybe when Ralph’s face is like it was before, he will grow prickly hair on it like you.” He strokes the unmarred side of his own jaw like he’s considering what it’d feel like. “Connor’s very handsome.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, unless you want to. I only added it because the RK900s all have my face and they work for the humans. But you…” _Are probably one of few WR600s still alive in Detroit._ “...already look handsome.”

Luckily, Ralph doesn’t notice his hesitance and beams at Connor. “You think Ralph’s handsome?” he asks with a coquettish grin. “Even...even with the scars?” he tacks on more subdued, bringing a hand up to his left side of his face.

“Oh, _especially_ with the scars,” Hank says, saving Connor from having to think of an appropriate answer. “It’s a real turn on for some people.”

Ralph still seems unsure about Hank, but his small smile takes on warmth at the assurance.

“Alright, I’ll get out of your hair,” Hank announces, likely to put Ralph at ease. “I’m heading to bed, it’s late.” He shuts the door behind him, leaving Connor and Ralph alone in the garage.

Once Hank’s gone, Connor sets to work using the specialized tools to remove the busted and melted pieces of chassis. Since an entire spare head was found, Connor opts to replace the entire face, including the eyes, which are also fully functional. 

It’s a lot simpler than what Connor originally feared—despite how grotesque the damage appears, it’s mainly cosmetic. The real damage is mental, but there is nothing Connor can do about that.

When he’s finished, he takes Ralph inside to the bathroom to check his reflection. Hank’s snores can be heard from the bedroom.

“Ralph looks just like before!” He touches his face all over, giddiness making him tremble and bounce on his heels. “Ralph looks normal again...and now no one will bother him.”

Ralph turns to Connor then, his expression becoming serious. “There are other androids who hide like Ralph and Connor. Alive, like us.” 

He holds a hand out and Connor connects with him, their fake skin peeling away to reveal their bare plastic. Connor receives a map, but it’s not the same one as the Jericho key. This one is new.

“To find them, when you’re ready. You could help.” Ralph lets go of Connor’s arm. “Ralph must go now.”

Connor nods. He understands; Ralph can’t stay around humans for long. Connor takes the pistol out of his waistband and hands it to him grip-first. “Call me if you ever need me. You know where to find me.”

Cradling his potted succulent in his arms with a new face, Ralph leaves.

Connor brings up the holographic projection on his palm. The first image is one of the spray-painted android rebellion symbols found all over the city, the location familiar to any android from the area. Maybe he can help.

He assigns himself an old, familiar objective with a new twist: _[Find deviant hideout]._

~.~.~.~

“You know,” Connor says, pulling his hoodie off. It hits the floor of Hank’s bedroom by his feet. “If Zlatko Andronikov kept such a stock of parts and performed such experiments, he probably had genital components, too.”

“You’d think so,” Hank says, the hunger in his eyes only waning a fraction at the mention of Zlatko, still greedily drinking in Connor’s freshly bared skin. “But I might have, uh, checked already, when I was in there before. I don’t know what they look like when they’re not attached, but I didn’t see anything familiar. Not unless they’re all currently being used. And before you ask, _no,_ I didn’t check the recovered bodies, I’m not going to take someone else’s dick.”

Connor closes his mouth, opting to remove his sweatpants in silence. He had been about to ask that, but Hank doesn’t need to know how correct he is. He’ll just have to break into a Cyberlife warehouse at a later date, or maybe the Eden Club.

Hank makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Didn’t I buy you underwear?” He kicks off his own pants, his girthy erection straining against his boxers.

“You did, but I like the feel of your sweatpants on my bare hole.”

“ _Fuck,_ the mouth on you.” Hank pauses undressing to grip Connor by the chin and give him a deep, probing kiss. It feels like someone stuck a balloon inside Connor’s chest frame and inflated it until it was about to burst him open, changing him into something better. Connor reaches for the waistband of Hank’s underwear and shoves them down, freeing his cock.

“You can fuck me like this,” he says, using a seductive tone, and slips his fingers underneath Hank’s shirt. “A few times won’t damage me. My body isn’t meant to be used like this but...I want you to.”

Hank practically growls, clashing his mouth against Connor’s. He shoves him onto the bed and pulls his own shirt off in one fluid motion. Connor zooms in with his eye lenses, cataloguing every bit of every inch of fully nude Lieutenant Hank Anderson standing before him. His sexual protocols compel him to be filled with biological matter, with Hank’s blood-swollen meat. The thought of mixing their organic and synthetic fluids together, of retaining Hank’s seed inside himself again, sends him into an anticipatory ecstasy. He rolls over onto his hands and knees, spreading his legs to show off his bare plate and hole. Waiting to be claimed and bred like an animal.

“I promise, you won’t break me.” Connor looks over his shoulder at Hank to see him crawl after him on the bed, a heat simmering in the depths of his widened pupils.

Hank settles his broad hands on Connor’s narrow hips, splaying his thick fingers around to almost touch one another. Connor sways his ass in the manner his software indicates will entice Hank into mounting him. Logically, he knows that if he’s got Hank this far that further seduction is unnecessary, but it doesn’t hurt to be sure. 

The thick head of Hank’s cock brushes against the sensors of Connor’s rear port and he goes absolutely still, before an involuntary shudder wracks down his body.

Hank asks, "You sure about this?"

“Yes,” Connor answers immediately. He punctuates it with another wiggle of his butt.

“Alright, alright, settle down.” Hank gives a cheek a pat, and gripping Connor’s hips tighter, begins to enter him.

When the head starts to spread Connor’s hole apart a gasp escapes him. Hank pauses.

“Okay?” he checks, and Connor nods.

“Yes...you’re just bigger than I’m used to. Please continue.” 

When Hank does not move right away, Connor starts to back up.

“Oh— fuck, you’re so _tight_ — slow down!” Hank hisses, fingernails digging into Connor’s artificial skin in vain—the skin recedes in white spots, but it does not stop Connor.

“Take me already,” Connor pants, his subroutines looping and working him into a frenzy. “Why do you have to be so stubborn? I know you want me.”

Hank curses, his cock sinking deeper into Connor’s slick channel. The wet slide pings the sensor nodes collected around the port entrance, clouding his vision with error messages and foreign intrusion warnings.

“Oh yeah?” Hank rasps. “You sure are cocky for someone who’s leaking down his thighs. Seems like you’re the one who wants it. Practically begging for my fat dick to fill you up.” He pushes in the rest of the way.

Connor feels Hank’s wiry pubes scratch on his plates and his ball sack flush against his mound. He moans, throwing his head back. He finally has Hank inside him, all the way to the root. He could orgasm, just from this, he thinks deliriously. Just a little more, to give him that final jolt. 

“I know the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.” Connor rocks forward on his hands, drool pooling in his mouth, before spearing himself back on Hank’s cock. “You want to use me, too, don’t you? Tie me up and fuck all my holes, piss in me—”

Hank groans and starts pounding Connor in earnest, and that’s all it takes. Connor comes, gasping desperately in a bid to help cool his rapidly warming systems. His limbs go limp and unresponsive for a few seconds and he lies there, ass in the air getting fucked and face pressed into the bed.

After a few more seconds to allow the refractory period to complete, his sex protocols activate again, and Connor starts moaning once more, pushing himself up on his hands. Hank keeps thrusting his dick in him at a steady but unrelenting pace, fucking away at Connor’s dripping hole with a strength and stamina Connor did not expect based on the man’s alcohol consumption habits. 

He watches over his shoulder as the sweat gathers at Hank’s brow and drips down the side of his face; how his pecs flex and soft middle jiggles; his pupils, so blown his eyes almost appear black; expression slack and morphed by pleasure in a way Connor’s never seen before. He knows Hank would consider his unceasing staring to be ‘creepy’, but Connor doesn’t want to miss a second of this. Each bit of data he takes in, each sensor that is touched, each error message, it all builds the heat up in his tubes, makes his thirium pump work faster, helps him reach that electric jolt of pleasure deep in his processors. 

He wants more.

He reaches for one of Hank’s hands, tugging it towards his mouth. Hank hunches over him, grinding on him, panting against Connor’s neck. He lets the skin around his hole peel away to feel him against his bare plastic, and puts two of Hank’s fingers into his mouth, suckling on the digits to a burst of new data. Hank’s fingerprints touch him all over inside, rub and press on the sensitive parts of his tongue.

Hank flips him over onto his back, not even pausing to take himself out first. Connor’s close, so close, he just needs a little more.

“Am I good?” he gasps and wraps his legs around Hank. Just a little more. He rolls his hips up to meet Hank’s thrusts, spearing himself over and over. “Do I feel good?”

Hank shudders, and Connor feels his cock throb inside him, so full, so hot. “Fuck yeah, baby, you feel amazing, so goddamn _tight._ So pretty. So good for me, Connor.”

Connor cries out, his legs splaying wide, letting Hank do whatever he wants to him. He’s floating, listening to Hank’s sweet murmurs and feeling his hungry touches, the reverent way his broad palms rub over Connor’s body in worship.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Connor?” Hank asks breathless. “A good little machine, perfect for my cock, like you were made just to take me.”

That does it again. Connor comes once more, twitching and moaning, his voice modulator taking on a slight metallic subtone as the intensity becomes too much to bear. He manually swipes the error messages away; he knows his systems are fine.

“Holy shit,” Hank exclaims, momentarily pausing his movements to look Connor over, “Did you come just from that?”

Connor grins broadly; his body is absolutely _singing._ “That was my second one, actually.”

Hank squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in the crook of Connor’s neck. He gives three more powerful thrusts, then dumps his load inside Connor’s port.

Connor hums in elation, euphoric aftershocks zapping their way through his systems as Hank pulls out. A gush of semen follows, soaking into the sheets beneath his body, but Connor can’t find it in himself to care about the mess. He’s drawn to Hank’s heaving chest, the man’s fingers coming up to twirl with a lock of hair. Connor’s entire body feels aglow with pleasure, pulsing through him to the rhythm of Hank’s heart beat. They lay like that for several moments, content to soak up affection from one another.

Eventually, Hank clears his throat.

“I want you to know that all that stuff I said—it was hot, sure, but it wasn’t true. It was just dirty talk, y’know? I don’t want you to think I actually want to use you like some sex toy you toss away when you’re done. For better or worse, I took you on as my responsibility when I brought you home. I’ve spent too long trying to escape everything.” He looks at Connor. “I’m not going to fail you a second time.”

Connor props himself on an elbow and cups Hank’s cheek, thumb brushing against the bristles of his beard. “Hank, you didn’t fail me. You taught me not just what it means to be a person, but what it means to be a _good_ person.” Hank tries to look away but Connor doesn’t let him, holding him fast. “You taught me how to empathize and how to love unconditionally.”

He lets go of Hank’s face, plopping back flat on the mattress. “It might take me some time to figure it out, but I’ll make you proud.”

“Connor…” Hank says, but no words follow. He rolls over on top of him to kiss him senseless. 

When their lips part, Connor updates their relationship status to _[Lovers]_.

~.~.~.~

Connor comes out of stasis that morning looking forward to the day. 

He checks off a personally-assigned objective: _[Reconnect with Hank✓]._ It disappears from his tasks list.

Hank is snoring quietly beside him in the bed, his warm arm slung over Connor’s waist, trapping him there. 

But Connor likes it, likes being trapped by Hank.

Falling in love—it feels a bit like being taken apart, in a way. Losing control over his own body and his reactions, handing it over to someone else for safe keeping. They could add pieces, take away other parts of him, rebuild him into something new. 

But Connor is not afraid of being disassembled, not by Hank’s hand. After all, he could just as easily disassemble Hank. 

~.~.~.~

The new optical unit snaps into place. The seams fit together perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle. Elijah Kamski looks down at his creation, a pleased curve to his lips. Perfect. He is perfect. This time, Kamski will make sure to be more involved; too many variables, too many ways it could go wrong again, and he may not get a third chance.

“If at first you don’t succeed…” Kamski mumbles to himself like a ritual, pressing at the android’s temple where an LED once was. “Try, try again.”

The android opens his eyes, both irises once more a clear and bright seaglass green, and sits up on the operating table. His eyes find Kamski’s. There is no recognition in them; they are empty, hollow. The passion will come with time. So will the memories.

“RK200, register your name: _Markus_.”

The RK200 gives a soft, shallow smile. 

“My name is Markus.”

~.~.~.~

**Author's Note:**

> If you also love Connor Detroit pls come talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/clairesail)
> 
> Edit: divided into chapters to make it easier to read


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